


Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Case Fic, Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Guns, M/M, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slave has no power to defend himself, other than any protection his master chooses to bestow. John and Lestrade struggle with interpreting their masters' intentions, while Sherlock unravels a mystery not meant for him, and Mycroft’s plans move forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: This installment is more cliff-hanger-y than others have been. Please do not murder me.
> 
> Context: Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series, but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire. Or see the “previously on” at the beginning.
> 
> Content advisory: present day slave AU, so slavery and inherent consent issues therein, rimming, semi-graphic descriptions of an injury, semi-public sex, dirty talk, threat of torture  
> Notes: Thanks to morganstuart, jaune_chat, and izzie7 for their editing/cheerleading/Brit-picking. Remaining cock-ups are all mine.

**Previously, on _In My Master’s House_**  
Lord Mycroft has brought his brother to the Holmes estate to investigate a mystery that seemed to converge on the Chinese Ambassador. Sherlock pursues his case while navigating his relationship with his new slave, John Watson. Meanwhile, Lestrade is beginning to uncover facts that point to some impending problem Mycroft hasn’t confided in him. As guests arrive at the Holmes estate for a long-anticipated celebration, the strands of the case converge.

__________________________________________________________

 

John clawed at the cloth that held him pinned. His breath tore through his throat. Inside his chest, his heart spasmed, sending his pulse into a panicked sprint. Pain, darkness, and silence closed in on him. His eyes snapped open.

Soft lamp light flooded the room, illuminating the wreck of sheets and duvet that spanned the considerable distance to the edge of the bed, where Sherlock perched like a pale gargoyle. 

John unclenched his hands from the tangled sheets. He gulped in air and tried to release it steadily—no easy task while still shaking from an unwanted dose of adrenaline. 

“John.” Sherlock loomed over the bed. “John?”

“’M fine.” John scrubbed his hand down his face. “I’ll be fine.”

“Quickly, tell me about the dream. Include every detail.” Sherlock arranged himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

“’S just a nightmare, Sherlock.” John pushed himself up to lean against the headboard. “Not real. Just the brain sorting through—“

“Quickly, John,” Sherlock broke in. “Memories of these events fade at an alarming speed. Start talking. What did you see?”

“It’s not real. Why do you--?”

“You.” Sherlock’s eyes held a glimmer of the hunger John had seen before, when Sherlock was chasing down a promising clue to their investigation. “Your brain, do you understand? To get a glimpse of how it works, how it processes events and information.”

John folded his arms over his bare chest, where he could still feel an echo of pain from his dream. “Remember I told you that certain things of mine didn’t belong to you? This is one of them.”

“Your dreams may not be mine by rights, but I’d like to share them, if I may.” Sherlock moved, covering the distance between them in a gliding crawl to kneel at John’s side. “I want to get inside you. The chance to grasp something from your mind that you don’t understand yourself is a rare opportunity.” He ran his hands up John’s chest to drape around his shoulders, just under the collar. “Let me in. Let me see.” 

“Moran.” John pressed his eyes closed, and the scene appeared before him, fresh as it had been when it drove him from sleep. “In combat dress. He held me on my back. Had a knife. Digging into my shoulder, right into the scar. Only there was no scar, not yet.”

“It hurt.” Sherlock’s thumb traced the edge of the scar.

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“The desert, and the mountains. It was night. Stars in the sky.” So many more stars than he ever saw in London, or here on the estate. A riot of stars. “You were calling my name.”

“From where?”

“I couldn’t see you.” John opened his eyes to see Sherlock still looming over him, unreasonably close, undeniably present. “Moran pushed the knife in, and put his finger to his lips. It had blood on it, my blood, I suppose. It smeared on his mouth.”

“Yes, details. Good. Then what?” Sherlock prompted.

“You came for me. You couldn’t see him. He sat me up, held onto me, with his knife inside me. You told me to get up, but he was still holding me.” John could still see the impatient expression on Sherlock’s face in his dream; he’d seen the look in waking life often enough to know it well. “You knelt down and touched my face, but you didn’t see him. You didn’t notice. “

“I always notice.” Sherlock tapped a finger against John’s collar. “I will always notice.”

“Alright.” John curled his hand around his scarred shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the streaks of burning pain that raced through his nerves when he rotated the joint. “It’s just the shoulder. Sore from hanging on it. It’ll pass.”

Sherlock stared at John’s skin, as if he could see through it to the inner workings of his body. “They hurt you.”

“It was just a dream.”

Sherlock dropped his hand on top of John’s and squeezed. John caught a pained hiss behind his teeth. “You’re in pain.”

“It’s the middle of the night.” John swung his legs over the side of the bed and braced himself to get to his feet. “I’ll take a paracetamol. Go back to sleep.” 

“You sleep more soundly in your own quarters.” Sherlock sprang out of bed, snatched his dressing gown from the back of a chair, and belted it around his waist. “Fewer nightmares. Greater frequency of REM. I suspect because it’s a closer approximation to your living conditions before you became a slave.”

“Or perhaps it’s because I don’t get woken up by a bloody fiddle,” John said as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock flung open the door to the room and reached for John’s hand. “Let’s test your hypothesis.”  
\--

 

Lestrade’s eyes had long ago adjusted to the dim greyness of his quarters, but even if the room had been pitch-black, he would likely have been able to determine his master’s expression by the sound of his breathing. He knew Mycroft’s face by heart, and every look that it displayed. 

Exhausted as he was, sleep had not come peacefully to Mycroft tonight; Lestrade’s master was of course used to sleeping in unfamiliar environs all over the world, but invariably those accommodations were the epitome of luxury. Lestrade had hoped that his familiar presence would offer enough comfort to negate the thin, lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets, but apparently not. Mycroft frowned and muttered in his sleep.

Lestrade tucked a stray bit of hair out of Mycroft’s face and allowed his fingers to brush over Mycroft’s cheek. He should be getting a good rest before tomorrow’s festivities, not suffering through sub-par sleeping conditions to offer comfort to a slave. Perhaps Lestrade could help him relax. 

Lestrade trailed his hand gently down Mycroft’s side, tracing his shape. He curled his hand over the soft curve of Mycroft’s hip, pulled their bodies tight together, and rolled his hips slowly. He buried his face against Mycroft’s neck and breathed him in. There: the smell he’d been missing earlier tonight, a signal that spoke to him of home and safety more than his cold flat in Lambeth had ever done.

“Gregory?”

Lestrade rolled his body up against his master. “Sorry, sir. Did I wake you?”

Mycroft’s silent chuckle reverberated against Lestrade’s chest. “It wasn’t a very nice dream, anyway. This is much more pleasant.”

“I’m sorry it’s not as comfortable as you’re used to.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Let me help you.” Lestrade’s braced his back tight against the cold stone wall and pulled Mycroft towards him; Lestrade meant to give his master all the room he might need to take what he wanted. Mycroft came easily, pressing Lestrade against the wall with a thorough kiss. 

Lestrade let go of Mycroft’s hip to insinuate his hand between them and grip Mycroft’s hardening cock through the smooth fabric of his rumpled trousers. Under the covers in such a narrow bed, Lestrade remembered in a rush hurried and hushed encounters in his room at uni: desperately trying to finish before his roommate returned. A low chuckle escaped him, causing Mycroft to go rigid beside him. 

“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing, sir.” Lestrade lowered his voice to a whisper. “Only we might get caught.”

“Then you had better hush.” Mycroft leaned in closer to press kisses against Lestrade’s forehead, his cheek, his neck. 

“May I?” Lestrade thumbed open the button on Mycroft’s trousers and slipped his hand inside to rub against the growing bulge in Mycroft’s pants.

“Wait,” Mycroft instructed, and Lestrade froze. “You’re always having to do for me. Let me, this time.”

Mycroft caught hold of Lestrade’s wrists and pushed them against Lestrade’s chest. The pressure itself wasn’t much; he certainly couldn’t have held on if Lestrade had resisted. But deference to Mycroft held Lestrade still as well as handcuffs would have done. 

Mycroft kept Lestrade’s wrists pinned with one hand while his other traced its way down Lestrade’s naked chest to the waistline of his pyjama bottoms. Lestrade looked down in time to see Mycroft’s long, graceful fingers delve beneath the fabric to wrap around his cock. Mycroft’s thumb swiped through the dampness at the tip and then dragged down Lestrade’s length. 

“Eager, aren’t we?”

Lestrade managed a grunt that that conveyed something surpassing agreement. 

With a smile, Mycroft dragged Lestrade’s bottoms down his hips, until Lestrade could kick them off entirely. Then Mycroft pulled away momentarily to unfasten his trousers and push them aside before reaching for the lotion on Lestrade’s table and squeezing a generous amount into his palm. He returned to pin Lestrade’s wrists with one hand and squeeze their erections together with the other hand.

Lestrade pushed back against the wall, fighting to keep from squirming in his master’s grip. He drank in the satisfaction on Mycroft’s face until Mycroft looked up, making Lestrade drop his gaze out of habit. 

“Close your eyes,” Mycroft instructed. “Let me look at you.”

Quashing his disappointment, Lestrade squeezed his eyes closed. He struggled to keep them closed as Mycroft pumped his hand up and down their cocks, twisting his grip at the top and squeezing them together at the base. Without his sight, Lestrade could only imagine how Mycroft looked. Mycroft would only need to devote a bare amount of attention to his work to keep Lestrade on edge and panting: the rest he could use to take in his fill of Lestrade’s reactions. 

Mycroft’s attention ranged deep and wide; he could read truths in a man’s breathing, the incline of his head, or the flush of his skin, and uncover information his subjects would rather keep hidden. Holding Lestrade at his mercy like this, Mycroft could dig out and uncover his every desire where other men would see only flesh. 

Lestrade bucked up into Mycroft’s grip with a strangled grunt, but managed to keep his eyes closed. “Please,” he gasped. 

“What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft delivered a smooth, painfully slow stroke.

“I want to see you.”

“Why?” Mycroft sounded genuinely curious.

Lestrade’s mouth gaped open as he gulped in breath and tried to formulate an answer. Why? He wanted this memory; he wanted the image of Mycroft here in his bed, for later, when Mycroft wouldn’t be his to touch or to hold anymore. He wanted to memorize this moment with all his senses. But he couldn’t confess something so selfish. He settled for a more appropriate truth. “I need you. I need to know it’s you.”

“You know me better than anyone,” Mycroft whispered into his ear, barely audible above the slick sound of Mycroft stroking them together. “Do you need to see me to know me?”

“Of course not.” Eyes dutifully closed, Lestrade pushed forward, finding his way by long practice, and kissed Mycroft. 

Mycroft released his grip on Lestrade’s wrists so he could grip their cocks with both hands; his furious pace had Lestrade writhing against him. 

Freed, Lestrade’s hands gripped Mycroft by the shoulders and pulled him in to deepen the kiss. Mycroft was right; he didn’t need to see to recognize the expert way Mycroft handled his body. Mycroft had devoted the same time and attention to learning Lestrade as he did to analyzing troop movements in the Prussian Empire. No one had ever bothered to learn him so well. No one had ever had such power to undo Lestrade with a touch, but he doubted it had anything to do with the collar he wore. No one had treated Lestrade like this when he’d been free. 

“There now,” Mycroft whispered. “This should do it.” A slide of Mycroft’s thumb against his slit, and a firm twist of Mycroft’s fingers, and Lestrade’s climax knocked his breath from his chest. A few more quick strokes, lubricated by Lestrade’s release, and Mycroft spent himself between them. 

Lestrade reluctantly broke their kiss to catch his breath. Mycroft slumped against his chest, boneless and heavy, all tension drained. His eyes drifted shut, so Lestrade indulged in a long look at his master: skin damp with sweat, the back of his neck flushed and hot to the touch, hair in comic disarray. _His lover_. The strange thought came to his mind unbidden, but Lestrade corrected himself at once: his _master_.

“Here, let me.” Lestrade reached up to snatch a towel from the headboard, and gave their stained clothes a token cleaning, or as near as possible without dislodging his drowsing master. He tossed the towel aside and slumped once more against the headboard.

“You should rest,” Lestrade whispered. 

“We’ll have to get up before long,” Mycroft muttered, but he didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

“Sleep.” Lestrade settled his hand around Mycroft’s shoulder and held him close. “There’s time enough.”  
\--

 

John slammed into full wakefulness. His senses raced through all the available input, categorizing danger: Sherlock’s hand curled around his thigh, sunlight slanting through the high window, arm cramped from lying wedged against the wall.

A soft knock sounded, far too loud in the room’s deep silence. “John?” someone whispered from the other side of the door. That must have been what woke him.

Carefully, slowly, he extricated himself from Sherlock’s tangled limbs, flung on his dressing gown—still the red silk one on loan from Anthea—and cracked the door open. 

“John!” Molly had raised her hand to knock again, but drew back right away. She wore white flannel pyjamas that hung loose on her like a big sister’s hand-me-downs. The sleeves were streaked with rusty red. “I’d hoped you were in,” she whispered.

“Molly, is that... blood?” John asked.

She tucked her hands behind her back. “It’s not mine.”

“What’s happened?” John ventured a step out and glanced down the corridor: no one. Molly was alone. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s just...” Her eyes darted down the hall, first one way, then the other.

“What’s wrong?” John caught her by the elbow to examine the red on her sleeve. There was much more than a few drops. “Whose blood is that?” 

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Please, John. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I can help.” John kept a firm grip on her arm and steadied his voice. “If someone’s hurt. You know I can help.”

Molly tucked her arms around her middle, smearing a stain of red across her belly. She nodded once. “Come on, then. Quickly, please.”

John slid back into the room, snatched his medical bag from the shelf and spared a last look for Sherlock, who lay sprawled on the bed with his eyes closed. Asleep, John hoped. 

Molly slunk along the corridor, keeping close to the walls like a mouse. She pressed the finger-pad to the security panel to open a door at the far end of the corridor, and hovered nervously in the doorway as she ushered John inside. 

The tiny room held the standard small chair, in which sat Jim in a black dressing gown, wringing out a flannel into a bowl in his lap filled with pinkish water. Face down on the narrow bed lay a young woman in a jade collar stripped to the waist, who looked vaguely familiar to John. He didn’t spare much time examining her face, however, because his attention snapped to the livid marks that littered her exposed skin. 

“This is Soo Lin.” Molly shut the door firmly behind them. “She belongs to the Chinese Ambassador. I was coming back from my duties this morning, and I found her sitting on the back stairs, crying. I didn’t know what else to do but bring her here!”

“We did the best we could,” Jim said. He looked paler than usual, and John noticed blood under his fingernails. “I’ve dealt with whip marks before, but this is a bit extreme. Thank goodness you’re here.”

“It’s not just the whip. Those marks are a day old at least; they’re healing already.” John dropped his bag on the room’s rickety table and began unpacking what he’d need. “On her thighs, there. And her arms. Looks like knife marks.”

John crouched next to the bed and tried to meet Soo Lin’s eyes. “Hello, I’m John. I’m a doctor.” She stared resolutely past him towards the wall. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Let me try,” said Jim. He spoke softly in a language John didn’t recognize. 

Soo Lin turned her head to look at Jim, and answered back weakly.

“She says she angered her master, and he had to punish her,” Jim reported. At John and Molly’s stares, he shrugged. “One of my first masters wanted us all to learn Cantonese. He did a lot of trading with the Eastern Empires.” 

“Well, lucky for us,” John said. “Soo Lin, did your master give you any treatment?”

Jim translated. Soo Lin shook her head and answered softly. 

“She says she doesn’t deserve any,” Jim said. 

Soo Lin tried to rise, but Jim caught her by the shoulder and spoke quickly to her in a soothing tone. She subsided and buried her face in the pillow. “There now.” Jim turned to John. “She should cooperate.”

“She’s shaking.” Molly knelt on the floor by the bed and held Soo Lin’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. John won’t hurt you. He’s patched me up before.” Molly’s assurances didn’t make Soo Lin any less tense.

“This might sting a bit.” John disinfected the cuts first, but Soo Lin barely flinched. As he wiped away the blood, he could see the wounds were not as deep as he’d feared; the knife had barely split the skin. “There’s a pattern here. Almost looks like characters.”

“They’re numbers.” Jim leaned in close beside John. “That’s a fourteen, that’s a two...”

“Oh.” John stared down at the thin red lines that marred Soo Lin’s skin, and recalled the photographs in his room: the spray paint on the rock in the woods, the graffiti on the kennel wall. “I... Do you mind if I take a photo? I want to document this, just in case.”

Jim related the question to Soo Lin, and translated her brief reply as “no objections.”

John dug Sherlock’s phone out of the dressing gown pocket—there were advantages of having a master who left his things everywhere—and began to snap pictures. 

“Where did you get a camera phone?” Jim asked. 

“It’s Sherlock’s. Lord Sherlock’s,” John said, and left it at that. He didn’t know how to explain his relationship with his master to his fellow slaves. It would probably be better not to try. He photographed the characters carved into Soo Lin’s arms and down her calves. As an afterthought, he also took a shot of the small, circular tattoo on the sole of her right foot.

Molly helped John bind the wounds—she had a deft hand for first aid, it seemed—while Jim kept speaking quietly to Soo Lin. By the time they finished, bright sunshine was pouring in from the narrow window. The house would be waking soon.

“I have to go,” John said. “Lord Sherlock will be wondering where I’ve got to.” He plucked a bottle of paracetemal from his bag, shook two tablets into his hand and offered them to Soo Lin. “Take two of these with water for the pain. Two more every six hours or so, and come see me tonight to get those bandages changed.”

Soo Lin sat up stiffly and gathered her intricately embroidered dressing robe around her shoulders. She looked at John right in the eye and spoke several sentences, none of which he understood. 

“She says ‘thank you,’” Jim said.

As John stood there frowning in apology, Soo Lin took the tablets from his hand and shook her head.

“You’d better get back before someone comes looking for you. We’re really not all allowed to be here,” Molly said. 

“Will you be alright?” John asked Soo Lin.

“I’ll see her back to her room.” Jim offered a hand to help her up.

As Jim led her out of the room, Soo Lin looked back at her shoulder to hold John’s eyes until the door closed between them.  
\--[

 

Lestrade had prepared himself for the worst when frenzied knocking had pulled him from his bed, but he hadn’t expected John Watson at the door with a tale of attempted murder and the possibility of an international incident. He clutched the edge of the doorframe and concentrated on keeping his voice down. “Forget Soo Lin for a moment. John, someone tried to _kill_ you, and you’re just telling me about this now?” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Did you tell Lord Sherlock, at least?”

“Not yet.” John had the grace to look sheepish, at least. He nodded toward the room. “Can I?” 

“Actually, no.” Lestrade offered an apologetic smile, but pulled the door more tightly against his side. “Fraternization rules.”

“Of course. Sorry.” 

Lestrade widened his smile to cover up his untruth. “Was it a slave or a free man?”

“I was blindfolded, and I didn’t exactly get to ask questions.”

“Right.” Lestrade shook his head. He’d been the one to bind John; he knew how totally defenceless he’d left him. “Do you remember anything else?”

“His voice was soft. Almost gentle. I remember thinking that was bizarre, considering all his threats.” John frowned. “He said I wasn’t worthy to serve Lord Sherlock. Said I was too... boring.”

“Someone who’s familiar enough with Lord Sherlock to know he’s easily bored, but not familiar enough to see he’s never been bored with you...” Lestrade tentatively crossed off Mycroft’s staff of personal slaves from his list of suspects; they’d all seen enough of Sherlock and John’s interactions to be convinced of the strength of their bond. “What else?”

“When he was choking me, he said Lord Sherlock would be glad of the mystery, glad of a new case.”

“Wonderful. We’re dealing with a psychopath who wants to send Lord Sherlock a message.” Lestrade shook his head. “My money’s on a free man. A slave wouldn’t have had the temerity to stand there and gloat.”

“It wasn’t Moran, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d know his voice.”

“And he was at table the whole evening, at least until Lord Sherlock’s little tantrum.” Lestrade tried to remember if any of the lords or ladies had excused themselves from the meal. He knew that some visitors had arrived too late for supper, and so hadn’t attended. Any one of them would have had free access to the entryway by the main dining room. “That still leaves a number of suspects.”

“I get the impression there’s a long list of people who’d like to hurt Sherlock.”

“That’s the truth.” Lestrade dragged a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was a loose end tripping up his people during tonight’s events. “If he knew you’d been threatened... Can you put off telling him? At least until after the banquet?”

“Why until then?” John frowned. “If I’m going to tell him at all, I’d rather do it right away. He doesn’t like it when I keep things from him, and even if I tried—“

“I...” Lestrade held up a hand to stop him. “John, if he thinks you’re in danger...”

John narrowed his eyes as he sought to follow Lestrade’s argument. “He might not keep me with him.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re safer at Lord Sherlock’s side. Not much escapes his notice.”

“What make you think he won’t just deduce what happened?” John asked.

“If he hasn’t yet, he might not. Unless he gets suspicious. Keep from mentioning it, if you can.” At John’s sceptical look, Lestrade could only sigh. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s safer. He’s prone both to rushing into things and to grand dramatic gestures. He was always crap at procedures. I don’t want to see him land you in hot water for making unverifiable accusations against a lord. You’ve been punished enough recently.”

“Agreed.”

“Listen, make sure you’re not alone today, understand? Not for a moment. If you can, stay with Sherlock. Otherwise, go where there are other slaves, Lord Mycroft’s slaves, not the guests’—the more the better. If any of the lords tries to get you alone, make an excuse. Say Lord Mycroft needs you, and find me. Will you do that?”

“I can’t promise anything,” John said, “but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask. I’ll find out what I can. Come and find me if you remember anything else.” Lestrade grabbed John’s arm as he turned away. “John. If it seems like Sherlock needs to know—you should tell him.”

John nodded and walked away.

Lestrade closed the door behind his friend and leaned against it. It had been too much to hope that his master had remained asleep. Mycroft sat on the bed, fighting a losing battle to straighten the shirt he’d slept in. “You counselled him not to inform his master.”

Lestrade sank down onto the bed next to Mycroft. “What would you do if you knew I’d been attacked, sir?”

Mycroft traced a hand over Lestrade’s back, across a faded line that served as the only lingering reminder of Lord Gus Milverton’s savage punishment. “You know what I would do.”

Lestrade hesitated a moment before asking his next question. “Do you know who it was?”

“I was in the dining room with you,” Mycroft said evenly.

“Of course.” Lestrade declined to mention that wasn’t an answer. “Someone must have seen something. With all these strangers in the house, it’s hard to keep track of everyone’s loyalties.”

“I’ve arranged adequate security for the banquet, I assure you.”

“Of course you have, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest-- . I’m sure your guests have no reason to worry.” Lestrade made bold to take his master’s hand. “You shouldn’t be bothering with this. It’s not important.”

“The slaves’ welfare is important, Gregory.” Mycroft folded his hands over Lestrade’s. “And I’m confident that John can take care of himself.”

“Yes, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head and bit back a retort. Even a man as strong and resourceful as John Watson could be defeated by the constraints under which they lived; quick thinking and a will to fight were no use against a master’s orders, or a rope around your arms, or a guard’s sidearm. Lestrade pulled away from Mycroft and stood. “We’ve a busy day ahead of us, sir. We should get started.”

“Of course.” Mycroft pushed to his feet, managing to look regal even in his hopelessly rumpled clothes. “I can manage with Clarke’s help, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to your work.”  
\--

 

John slid into his own room and eased the door closed behind him, but when he turned, he did not find Sherlock monopolizing his bed. Instead, his master was wrapped in a sheet. He bounced from one foot to the other as he surveyed the open expanse of John’s wall, across which John had affixed clues from their ongoing investigation. 

Sherlock’s eyes cut across to John, and he folded his hands under his chin. “Did you do all this?” he demanded, inclining his head towards the wall.

“It’s my room. Don’t get many visitors.” John waited for Sherlock to light into him for moving his things.

“Interesting.” Sherlock pivoted and leaned forward to observe the middle section of the spread of clues. “Is this what it’s like in that funny little head of yours?”

John moved to Sherlock’s side and stood there, admiring his work. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“What do these have to do with one another?” Sherlock pointed to the discarded packet of seeds, tacked just below the train ticket stub for Waterloo. 

John licked his lips. “They’re the same shape?”

“Well, that is one way to organize the evidence.” Sherlock sighed with the air of the deeply put upon. “I suppose I could think of stupider ways.”

“Oh, thanks very much.”

“Here. These obviously belong together.” Sherlock tore the scrap from the Guardian from the wall and replaced it next to the photo of the crime scene from the murder of the Ambassador’s son.

“Obviously.” John pulled the mobile from his pocket. “There’s something you should see. Do you remember Soo Lin? The Chinese Ambassador’s personal slave? I think she might have something to do with the graffiti we’ve been seeing.”

“Of course she has. Do keep up, John.” Sherlock snatched another clue from the array—a list of numbers—and put it above the photo of the painted rock from the woods.

“Wait, how--?”

“She’s the one leaving the graffiti. Coded messages.”

“Messages to who?”

“To whom.” Sherlock shot John a disdainful glare. “Honestly, I despair sometimes. It’s not the recipient that interests me.” Sherlock grabbed John’s copy of _Freedom Through Obedience_ off the desk and flipped through it. “It’s the code itself. We need to work out the system.”

“Well, there’s been another message.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock dropped the book and grabbed John by the shoulders. “Where did she leave it? What are the numbers? When did you find it?”

“I don’t think this message is from Soo Lin.”

“Leave the thinking to me, I’m much better suited for it.” Sherlock held out his hand for the phone. “Show me.”

John passed it over without comment; he’d learned that there was no use responding to any of Sherlock’s insults.

“Ah, excellent.” Sherlock held the display close to his face and grinned.

“Those are a girl’s injuries you’re looking at,” John felt compelled to point out.

“Yes, good. A change in the pattern. Something new, ah yes.” Sherlock scrolled to the last photo. His eyes widened. He rounded on John, brandishing the phone. “Where did you get this?”

John frowned at the photo Sherlock was referring to. “It’s a tattoo. It was on her foot.”

“Soo Lin’s foot.”

“Yes.” John snatched the phone out of Sherlock’s hand before he hit something. “The right one, if that’s important.”

“Of course. Of _course_.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, for all the world like a child on Christmas morning. “Get dressed. Meet me in the library. Move!” Sherlock swept out of the room with John’s bed sheet trailing behind him.  
\--

 

Lestrade sneaked a glance at his watch as he bustled through the kitchens. The room hummed with preparations for the banquet. Lestrade spotted Mrs. Hudson across the room, and had to dodge two kitchen slaves carrying a tall pastry confection, and another carrying a precariously high stack of dirty mixing bowls to get to her.

“It’s hot as an Australian work camp in here,” Lestrade said by way of greeting. 

“Yes, dear. The ovens have been going full bore since the wee hours. Will Himself want a breakfast tray brought up?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

“He’d better have something.” Lestrade thought the morning’s events were a positive sign, but Mycroft had been quite distant yesterday. Even his late-night apology had been troubling. Coupled with his recent strange behaviour, Lestrade recognized the need to keep an especially close eye on his master. That meant, at the very least, making sure he ate and slept.

“Mr. Lestrade...” Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on his arm. “Are things quite alright between the two of you? It’s just, last night it seemed... If there was trouble, you would say something, wouldn’t you? The mood of the master affects the whole house, you know.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade dredged up a reassuring smile. “I’ll just be glad when this banquet is over and done with.”

“I’ll have one of the girls take something up to him. Bedroom?”

“No, the office. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could help me get my hands on a plate of Cook’s scones?”

“Are you sure that’s wise? You ought to be watching your figure.” She poked a wooden spoon at his belly.

Lestrade managed a mechanical laugh at the good-natured jibe, but he felt his face reddening all the same. At the banquet tonight, lined up with the personal slaves of visiting lords and ladies, Lord Mycroft was certain to notice how unfavourably Lestrade compared to the prevailing standard. “They’re not for me.”

Lestrade carried his prize down the steps without feeling the least temptation to sample a scone, and turned right at the end of the corridor. He found his old acquaintance, now assistant head of the estate laundry with her sleeves rolled up, submerged to the elbows in a basin of steaming water. 

“Good morning,” Aggie greeted him. “I just finished the shirt you left last night. It’s pressed and hanging up with the rest.”

“You’re an angel.” Lestrade dodged the splashes of soapy water from the basin and planted a kiss on Aggie’s cheek before setting the plate of scones down on the ironing board. “I wanted to bring you and yours a little something. In gratitude. Lord Mycroft is awfully fond of that shirt, and I thought it might have been a lost cause.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m no stranger to lost causes, but you’ve yet to bring me one of those. Go on with you.”

As he started back up the stairs, Lestrade heard a strangled sound. He stopped. _It’s none of your business, Greg. Keep walking._ He’d never had any particular success at leaving mysteries unexplored, though. 

Lestrade walked past the entrance to the offices of the household guard and squeezed through the heavy metal door that stood ajar, separating the disused discipline cells from the rest of the lower level. Perhaps some of the kitchen slaves had sneaked down here for some privacy, or the children of some visiting lord had come exploring. 

Harsh fluorescent light illuminated a deserted hallway twenty feet long. A desk sat unoccupied in an alcove close to the door. Much farther down, the corridor widened into a room with six doors, some made of iron bars, some of slate-grey metal with a small window of thick glass inset in the top half. The noise came again—a kind of muffled grunt. 

Lestrade crept forward. Inside the first tiny cell, a tall, bald man was doing jumping jacks with his back to the door. 

“Hey, boy! What are you doing meddling about down here?” 

Lestrade turned. In the doorway behind him stood two soldiers—both in the red uniform of Imperial guards, rather than the blue of Mycroft’s household. 

“Is he--are you keeping a prisoner down here?” Lestrade asked.

“Bold cuss, to speak to your betters so when you’ve been caught snooping.” One of the soldiers strode towards Lestrade and grabbed his arm to pull him away from the cell door.

“Hold on, Sam.” The other soldier hurried forward. “This is Lord Mycroft’s man.”

He ran a thumb along the silver crest on Lestrade’s collar. “So he is. Suppose that means I can’t have you whipped for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You’ll not have any of Lord Mycroft’s slaves whipped, I imagine,” Lestrade said, more calmly then he felt. Down here, few would hear a commotion, and even if Aggie ran to help, there was nothing she could do against Imperial men.

“Mouthy. I hope your master appreciates that mouth.” The man rubbed his thumb across Lestrade’s lips. “You may get him into trouble with it one day.”

“Sam,” the other man said warningly.

“Off with you.” Sam released his grip on Lestrade and shoved him towards the door.

Lestrade spared one more glance for the occupied cell before retreating out of the room as slowly as he dared, as if his heart wasn’t pounding painfully in his chest. He breathed deeply, banishing the stupid, brutish threats of that soldier from his mind as he ascended the stairs, into the warm, familiar safety of the kitchen, and the house where he had, at least for now, a secure place.  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

When John returned from the showers, he found a note taped to the door of his room. “You’re needed in the gardens immediately.” The untidy scrawl could have belonged to any of the slaves in the wing, so John threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs, through the kitchen, and out into the courtyard.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, a peal of thunder shook the courtyard and sheets of rain descended from the sky. 

“Perfect,” John muttered. He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and trudged down the path, shoes squishing with every step. He would have to have a talk with Sherlock about appropriate times to work out of doors. 

But when John passed the hedges that marked the start of the formal gardens, he didn’t find Lord Sherlock measuring rainfall or digging up earthworms or examining variations in the colour of wet cobblestones. Instead, he found Lord Mycroft standing beneath a wide black umbrella in a little circle immune from the wet. In his right hand he held a cigarette. 

John considered a comment about the health risks of tobacco, before deciding that no comment he made could possibly convince Lord Mycroft to change his mind, let alone alter his behaviour.

Lord Mycroft took a long drag as John approached, then dropped the butt on the cobblestones and crushed it with his heel. “Doctor Watson, so kind of you to join me.”

“Not a doctor anymore, sir.” John came to a stop a respectful three feet away and stood in the downpour. “A slave can’t hold a medical licence.”

“Hm.” Lord Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re still practising.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” John dropped his gaze to the appropriate level.

“When I first summoned you to my library, it was because I’d learned you’d taken an interest in treating my slaves.”

“Was that it? I thought your purposes ran more to general intimidation, my lord.”

Mycroft turned his gaze to the darkened sky. “It’s been brought to my attention that you provided medical treatment this morning for the slave of a visiting dignitary.”

“Yes.” John didn’t bother to deny it. News travelled quickly on the estate, it seemed. “Yes, sir.”

“May I ask why you thought it necessary to interfere in such a case?”

“Because I took an oath to practise my craft to the best of my ability.” Once a doctor, always a doctor, Mrs. Hudson had said, and she’d been right; John could not forget his medical training any more than he could ignore the impulse to act when he saw someone in pain. “No one else was going to help her, sir.”

“I would have thought that from your earlier experience here you would have learned that the body, and therefore the health of a slave belongs not to the slave, but to the master who holds the contract.”

“You didn’t actually object to my treating Molly Hooper,” John pointed out.

“No. However, I am a man of modern, liberal sensibilities.”

“Are you, sir?” John managed to hold back a derisive laugh.

Lord Mycroft levelled an unreadable glance at John. “Yes.” He seemed to realize for the first time that John stood in the rain. “Pardon my rudeness. You seem to be unprepared for the weather.” He stepped forward to position himself next to John, so that his broad umbrella shielded them both from the wet. “You seem to think that I’m some sort of tyrant, but I assure you that the Chinese ambassador is much more traditional, and unfortunately, much more paranoid than I.”

“What do you mean paranoid?” The sudden shelter from the rain didn’t stop the chill that ran through John. 

“The Ambassador’s slaves were told not to speak to anyone in my household.” Lord Mycroft stared out at the dead grey sky. “Sedition is a very serious charge for slaves belonging to a diplomat of his importance. She has no way of proving whether she spoke to you or not, and the evidence of her medical treatment was reason enough to cast suspicion upon her.”

“What happened?” The chill that had gripped John settled in the centre of his chest, making it difficult to breathe. “Sir, what happened?”

“She’s dead, Dr. Watson.”

“I see.” John had seen her less than an hour ago. He could still hear the high, thin sound of her voice, whispering words he couldn’t understand. At his side, his hand clenched into a fist. “How?”

“Exsanguinated. I gather her throat was slit.” Mycroft spared a brief glance towards the path, but no one else was out in this deluge. “It’s possible the Ambassador even carried out the sentence himself. He’d be perfectly within his rights, by the laws of his own Empire.”

“You let this happen.” Heedless of protocol, John looked directly at Lord Mycroft, who met his gaze calmly.

“I did not cause this. You cannot fix everything, Dr. Watson. In fact, sometimes you can do more harm than good by trying, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s what you’d like me to do, is it, sir?” John asked through clenched teeth. “Stop trying?”

“Of course not.”

“Excuse me, sir. I have duties to attend to.” John stepped out from under Lord Mycroft’s umbrella, into the downpour, and headed for the path.

“This conversation is not finished.” Lord Mycroft’s sharp call pierced through the rain.

John turned back and gave a little bow. “I’m sorry, sir. My master doesn’t permit me to speak to other lords.” He strode away towards the house.  
\--

 

Lestrade found the residential section of the house quiet, which was not unusual at this time of day. Still, Mycroft hadn’t been in his office, which suggested he may still be in his rooms; he occasionally preferred to work from there, where he was less likely to be interrupted. 

At the branch of the corridor that led to the family wing, Lestrade nodded to the guard on duty, standing at ease beside her tall wooden desk. “Wood,” he said. “I saw no less than six guards between here and the kitchens. Busy day?”

“We’ve beefed up security for the banquet tonight.” Wood offered him a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be a long night for all of us, I’m sure.”

“Too right.” Lestrade inclined his head down the corridor. “Is His Lordship in his quarters, do you know?”

“Went out for a walk.”

“A...?” Lestrade glanced over to the hallway’s tall windows, where the drawn curtains allowed a clear view of the hazy downpour drenching the grounds of the estate. 

Wood shook her head. “Don’t ask me, Greg.”

“Right. Well, I’m certainly not going out after him.” Lestrade had enough to manage today without catching a cold from standing about in the rain. And besides, a little respite from his duties with Mycroft would give him time to pursue some other matters. “Oh, Wood. I wondered if you might... I was just in the cellars, and I noticed there were some Imperial soldiers down by the holding cells.”

“Oh, that lot.” Wood glanced quickly down the hallway; they were alone, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. “They’re a barrel of laughs.”

“Do you know why they’re here?”

“My understanding is they’re to take charge of a prisoner. Some intruder they caught on the grounds the other night.”

“Caught on the grounds?” Lestrade’s thoughts spun down several paths at once, trying to understand what that might mean. “An assassin? Was Lord Mycroft informed? I haven’t heard anything about—“

“Then you didn’t hear it from me, understand?” Wood held up her hands. “All I know is that they sent an advance team before His Imperial Highness arrives for the banquet, and they sent a few extra to deal with this.”

“Thanks, Wood.” Lestrade bit back his other questions; it wouldn’t do to land Wood in trouble. “You attending the banquet tonight, or you on sentry duty all day?”

“Yes, lucky me, I get to stand around the great hall looking ornamental.” She struck an exaggerated pose of military attention. 

“I’ll see you there.” Lestrade gave her a mock salute.

She laughed and waved him away. “Stay dry!”

Lestrade followed the corridor to its turning point, then unfastened a set of French doors that led onto the long balcony. The roof’s overhang shielded part of the balcony from the rain, so Lestrade could stay out of the wet as he walked the length of it. The balcony of the family wing faced the balcony of the guest wing across the decorative courtyard, and, off to the east, provided views of the sprawling gardens, so he might discern where, exactly, his wayward master had gone walking. Jasper had once explained that the manor’s original design had something to do with providing opportunities for young suitors from visiting families to see and be seen without endangering the virtue of the family’s eligible sons and daughters. Now, it provided a useful lookout on the grounds and a glimpse of the arriving guests. 

Lestrade had been studying the guests for days, of course, but he’d put more effort into memorizing the banquet seating arrangements than the room assignments. Still, when he saw lamps lit in several of the guest rooms, he tried to remember who was assigned the balcony-side rooms. Lady Price, who was arriving this morning with three slaves of her own. Lord Colonel Moran, at the far end, already had Jim assigned to him; Lestrade had better check on Jim today, to make sure Colonel Moran’s run-in with John yesterday hadn’t resulted in consequences for Jim. Lord Dixon had been housed next door to Lady Moore, the better to encourage their budding affair, which Mycroft had been nurturing as part of some design for the power structure of the west country. Captain Lennox, who’d need a slave to serve at table tonight. A guard was posted in the courtyard below, though mostly for appearances. The stone walls were smooth and featureless, hardly conducive to climbing. The estate was likely one of the most secure places in the Empire.

“You’re not as stupid as most of Mycroft’s staff.”

Lestrade didn’t need to look to recognize that voice. “Good morning, Lord Sherlock.”

“He respects your investigative skills, such as they are.” Lord Sherlock stepped up beside Lestrade, just far enough onto the balcony that the falling rain didn’t splash onto his highly-polished shoes. “So why, when a simple mystery arose regarding the tryst of a visiting ambassador’s daughter, did he not ask you to investigate?”

Lestrade bowed his head to the appropriately deferential degree, which had the welcome side effect of hiding his frown. Mycroft had reasons of his own for bringing Lord Sherlock here, he knew, and they had _nothing_ to do with any doubts Mycroft might have as to Lestrade’s abilities. Probably nothing. “Not such a simple case. If I recall, it took you several attempts to find the answer.”

“Merely steps on the path to a correct solution.” Lord Sherlock inclined his head towards Lestrade. “Usually my brother goes to great lengths to make sure you and I are not under the same roof for any span of time. He seems to think you’re still sensitive about your arrest and all that, which makes no sense. That was years ago. Why would you still be upset?”

“Why indeed?” Lestrade sighed.

“Mycroft wanted me here for a reason. What do you know about Moriarty?”

Lestrade fixed his attention on the rain drops spattering against the stone banister and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. Lord Sherlock might be capable of wresting information from an unwilling informant in any number of ways, but Lestrade resolved not to give away his master’s secrets without a fight. “If I knew anything, Lord Sherlock, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say.”

“Do you really think that Mycroft would have let all this go on—an ambassador’s daughter disgraced under his roof, Imperial soldiers stationed on the estate, armed intruders running around the grounds—if it weren’t part of some larger scheme?” Lord Sherlock scoffed. “My brother leaves very little to chance.”

“What Lord Mycroft does, he does for the good of the realm.”

“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to the Chinese Ambassador’s dead slave.”

“Soo Lin is dead?” Lestrade turned to face Lord Sherlock.

“Not to mention the Chinese Ambassador’s dead son, the two hired assassins the household guards shot on the grounds, and the three dead customs officials at Portsmouth who handled importing those Chinese slaves.” Lord Sherlock ticked them off on his fingers. “Mycroft’s racking up quite a body count for this little project, isn’t he?”

Lestrade kept his expression neutral, despite his surprise at the number of deaths Lord Sherlock seemed to think were related. As had often happened when he and Lord Sherlock worked together, he didn’t yet grasp the logic of the connections, but he felt a nagging suspicion that Sherlock’s conclusions were correct. Still, he’d seen no evidence to support what Lord Sherlock was suggesting. “Is Lord Mycroft personally responsible for every death in his territory?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Lestrade.” Lord Sherlock favoured him with a derisive glare. “Even you should be able to put together the pattern. He’s planning something, and he doesn’t mind shedding some blood in the course of his work. Not his own blood of course, but anyone who gets in his way. How long will you keep making excuses for him?”

“Moriarty is more dangerous than you can imagine,” Lestrade snapped. If Sherlock had seen Mycroft staying up nights, tracing the threads of his various schemes, perhaps he’d understand. “The Empress trusts Lord Mycroft to deal with him, and if you—“

“So Moriarty is a man.” Lord Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Lestrade replayed his last few words in his head, and cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to let himself be drawn into an argument with a Holmes. “Lord Sherlock— “

“That’s all for now,” Lord Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Unless there’s anything else you’d like to tell me.”

“No, sir,” Lestrade said stiffly.

Lord Sherlock swept through the French doors back into the house, leaving Lestrade in the cold.   
\--

 

John left a trail of water and mud on his way back to the personal slaves’ wing, where he found Anthea standing in the corridor, holding two garment bags. 

“This is formal daywear.” She held up the first bag as John scanned his print to open the door to his room. “Don’t let Sherlock spill anything on you, or get you messy, or drag you out in the rain again.”

“It wasn’t him.” John kicked off his waterlogged shoes and snatched a towel from the floor. “It was Lord Mycroft.”

“Lord Mycroft dragged you out in the rain?” Anthea asked from the doorway.

“He wanted to have a chat.” John applied the towel vigorously to his dripping hair, while adding to his mental list of things he would have liked to have said to Lord Mycroft in that chat, most of them involving obscure curse words he’d learned in the Army. “Did you know he smokes?”

“Only when he’s under too much stress.” Anthea hung the daywear on the wardrobe door and stood with her head bowed. “I’m sorry about what happened with Soo Lin.” 

“I should have done something more.” John tossed the towel to the floor, where it puddled like blood.

“John, people don’t treat slaves that way if they plan to keep them.” Anthea touched the tips of her fingers to John’s shoulder, which ached dully. “Nothing you did or could have done would have saved her.”

“You don’t know that.” John shook off her touch, and with it a deluge of rainwater.

“I know more than you think.” Anthea held up the remaining garment bag. “Now, this is evening wear. Specially tailored not to wrinkle when you kneel.”

“What a great advance for civilization.” John slumped into the room’s solitary chair, weighed down by sodden clothes and guilt. 

Anthea hung the evening wear next to the daywear. “You know, if you need help, you should ask Lestrade.”

“I can work out how to fasten my own trousers, thanks.”

“I mean about Soo Lin.” She turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you think you’re the first slave to feel responsible for another slave’s misfortune? We are at the mercy of our masters, John, all of us. You can no more protect another slave from her master than you can protect yourself. You’ll go mad trying.”

“Then I’ll go mad. Is there anything else?”

Anthea slipped her phone out of her pocket and disappeared out the door. 

A warm shower made John feel almost human again, even if the formal daywear—a crisp white shirt with a thin black tie, jacket, and crisply pressed trousers—made him long for the relative comfort of his Army dress uniform.

Once properly attired—John double-checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure he wouldn’t be a target for reproach--he hurried to the family library, where Sherlock would likely be waiting impatiently, if he hadn’t got bored and faffed off. 

John heard voices as he approached the ornately carved doors and quickened his pace. Sherlock tended to throw social graces to the wind when in pursuit of clues, and a house full of important guests provided ample opportunity for disaster. But when John burst through the doors, he found an unfamiliar lady perched on one of the large oak tables, bare legs swinging, sending the hem of her skirt moving against her thighs. A slave with a bright red collar knelt at her feet, holding up her own skirt with one hand while the other worked between her legs. 

The door banged shut. Both women’s attention snapped to John. He quickly averted his eyes. The marble floor was inlaid with a complicated design of interwoven knots, he discovered. “I’m sorry ma’am. I didn’t... I’m looking for my master.”

“It’s alright,” the woman said. “Don’t be afraid, dear.”

John held back the automatic retort that he wasn’t afraid, merely surprised. It wasn’t every day he walked in on two beautiful women doing—and besides, why did no one believe in privacy in this house? “Sorry to have disturbed you, my lady.”

“You don’t disturb me. Stay, Kate.” The lady slid off the table and prowled towards John. He didn’t dare lift his eyes, but he could see her dainty feet encased in tremendously high black pumps as she clicked towards him.

“You’re new to the household.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition.” She waved a finger at his collar. “I thought you’d be taller.”

John kept his eyes averted and stood still.

“Kate, come here.”

The slave abandoned her position and came to stand beside her mistress.

“What do you think?” the lady asked.

The slave raked her eyes over John, lingering on the close cut of his trousers. “Works for me.”

“Everything works on you,” the lady said with an exasperated sigh. She turned back to John. “Old for a personal slave, aren’t you? Not the conventional type, either. You must have some impressive skills to have enticed Lord Sherlock.” The slave, Kate, whispered something in the lady’s ear, and she grinned. “He does have eccentric tastes, that one.” She glanced at John. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not at liberty to comment, ma’am.” John let his eyes stray to the library beyond, looking for any sign of his master. If Sherlock had already left, he’d have to extricate himself, and quickly. 

“Oh come, I’m not asking you to confess any intimate secrets. I’m just interested in what assets he sees in you.”

John thought for a moment he might be facing a repeat of Moran’s advances, but the woman merely inclined her head and examined him from a safe distance. 

“I am very good at knowing what people want.” The lady began a slow circuit around him, her heels clicking on the marble. “You’re a strange one, though. Most slaves want to remain unnoticed. To do their duty and no more. You... You want to be useful.”

“I know my duty, ma’am.” John straightened his back and fixed his eyes on the floor.

“It’s more than duty.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Duty doesn’t give you that special glow.”

“Get away from him.”

John never heard the doors open, but suddenly they were swinging shut, and Sherlock had appeared in the narrow space between John and the woman.

“Lord Sherlock, really. I meant nothing by it.” The lady gave Sherlock a winning smile. “We’ve all been so curious about your new acquisition. Surely you’ll let some of us enjoy a turn around the floor with him tonight. It can be such fun to appreciate another master’s good fortune, even just for a dance or two.”

“John is mine.” Sherlock’s hand darted back to grab John’s wrist.

“Of course, dear.” She pulled Kate against her side and pressed a kiss to her hair. “I remember the first blush of having a new personal slave. The mindless passion it excites for a time. The delicious indulgence of learning a new slave’s charms.” She glanced at John. “Enjoy it while you can, my boy. Lord Sherlock, I’ll see you this evening.” She sauntered towards the library doors, and Sherlock turned to watch her go. 

Kate hurried forward and pressed something into John’s hand with a wink. He barely had time to see what it was before Sherlock crashed into him and shoved him backwards.

“She won’t have you.” Sherlock tore John’s jacket off his shoulders and flung it to the floor. 

“It’s just a dance, Sherlock. Not that I want to dance with her, but aren’t such things expected to—“

“No.” Sherlock tugged John’s tie loose, then tore his shirt free and ripped it over his head. “You’re mine, and you do what I want.”

Sherlock pushed John again, but this time John held his ground. “I am a person, you realize.”

“My person.” Sherlock dived forwards to take possession of John’s mouth. 

When they at last broke for air, John waved towards the door. “She’s gone. Sherlock, she’s gone. You don’t have to prove--”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock tugged at John’s belt until it slid from its buckle, then started in on his trousers. “You’re mine. I’ll have you right here if I want to. Let them see. Let them all see.”

John shouldn’t have been encouraging this, probably. He should make another protest about being treated as an object, surely, but his blood thrummed through his veins at Sherlock’s possessive display, drowning out his objections. 

“We agreed,” Sherlock growled. “You’re mine _exclusively_ , and now they’ll know it.”

John recalled Sherlock’s suggestive threats a few days previous—of having John suck on Sherlock’s fingers in public, of Sherlock feeding him scraps at the dinner table, of keeping John’s libido in check with a remote-control vibrating toy. Sherlock had clearly given real thought to flaunting his mastery of John for all to see. John’s cock throbbed in the confines of his pants. He clutched Sherlock’s arms to keep from swaying.

Sherlock’s expression brightened and turned smug. “You want this.” 

“So do you.”

“Obviously.” The sun pouring through the high stained glass windows haloed Sherlock in coloured light like some ethereal being. His usually pale eyes looked dark and hungry in the shadows. 

John swallowed against his collar. “Have me, then.”

Sherlock spun John around and shoved him between the shoulders to pin him facedown against the table. The hard oak felt smooth against his cheek. John remembered thinking, when Lord Mycroft had been scolding them for the book-throwing experiment, that the tables were probably as old as the house itself. Most likely Lord Mycroft wouldn’t approve of the use the table was being put to now. A helpless giggle escaped John and echoed around the cavernous room until Sherlock’s baritone chuckle chased it through the rafters. 

“We can’t giggle,” John said. “It’s a library!”

“I don’t care. Make all the noise you like.”

Sherlock stripped John of his pants and trousers and flung them aside. He kicked at John’s ankles until he spread his legs, then again until John was obscenely displayed, open and on view for anyone who might walk through the doors. 

Sherlock leaned over John. The soft material of his suit felt warm against John’s naked back. Sherlock’s silky voice rumbled in John’s ear. “Do you think I can make them hear you out in the gardens?”

“Do your worst.”

Sherlock’s graceful fingers smoothed over John’s hips as he stood, then slid down his thighs. Then lower, as Sherlock knelt. 

“What--?” was all John had time to get out before he felt Sherlock’s mouth against his thigh. A quick nip of kitten-sharp teeth against the curve of John’s arse made him jump. Then Sherlock laved a path up the juncture of his thigh and leg. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath. He pressed his forehead into the wood and fought the urge to spread his legs even wider. 

“You said I’d never learned how to make someone enjoy getting off with me. ‘Spectacularly ignorant’ was the term you used, I believe.” Sherlock’s whisper shivered over John’s skin, leaving goose flesh in its wake. “I’ve been researching.”

John managed a noise of confused inquiry before Sherlock raked his fingers down the flesh of John’s arse, then dug in to spread his cheeks apart. The first swipe of Sherlock’s tongue across John’s hole sent him bucking forward against the table. Sherlock followed him relentlessly, stroking his tongue over John’s cleft again and again until John let out a helpless whine.

“There.” Sherlock pulled back briefly. “I’m sure you can do better.” Sherlock dived forward again. This time his tongue speared inside John, an intimate invasion. John’s surprised yelp bounced against the high walls and reflected back at him. He’d forgotten how this felt, to have someone inside him this way. It had been years upon years since anyone had done this for him, and even then, it hadn’t felt so personal. Sherlock licked and tongued him with single-minded determination, as eager as a fresh army recruit showing off his skills at the shooting range.

Sherlock licked a firm stripe against John’s slick hole. “You do like this.” His hand slid through John’s thighs to cup his heavy balls, then gave his erection a gentle squeeze. “What part of it arouses you?” He rubbed his thumb under John’s sac. “It is the depravity of the act? Many cultures consider rimming taboo.” He delved his tongue back inside John, a brief caress. “No, it’s the danger, isn’t it? Knowing that anyone could walk through those doors and see you spread open for my pleasure.” Sherlock pushed to his feet and planted a hand at the small of John’s back. “If Mycroft walked in right now, you’d stay here, with your legs spread.” Sherlock sucked on a finger with an obscene, wet noise, then slowly, firmly pressed it inside John. “Even if he stood here lecturing me, you’d let me keep fingering you while we talked. You would stay and let me do as I please, because you’re mine.” 

“Oh God.” Even as John’s cheeks heated at that image, his cock throbbed desperately. 

With his free hand, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder, pulled him upright, and turned him towards the door. Naked, impaled on Sherlock’s finger, and harder than he’d ever been in his life, John groaned. 

“Let them all see. They can’t have you. They won’t ever touch you. You’re mine.” Sherlock’s grip tightened against John’s injured shoulder. “Say it.”

John could feel the hard outline of Sherlock’s erection in his trousers pressed against him. Sherlock: reckless and determined to please and half mad with need, all for John. “I’m yours,” John told him.

“Yes.” Sherlock let go of John, only long enough to turn him around for a kiss.

John planted his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to make him pause. “You had better fuck me right now, Sherlock, or I’ll take it back.”

“You won’t take it back.” Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and steered him onto the table. “You’re an honourable man.”

“Damn right.” From his perch on the table, John almost matched Sherlock for height. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before opening his hand. “Here. A gift from that woman’s slave.” John handed him the small tube he’d been holding onto.

Sherlock scowled, but he took the lube. “Let them be as clever as they want. They won’t have you. Not like I have you.” Sherlock coated his fingers, slid them back inside John, and stretched him impatiently. He made short work of his buttons and zip, pausing only long enough to pull his cock free and slick it before positioning himself between John’s legs. “Now, what was it you wanted?”

“Fuck me, damnit!” John shouted. His words boomed through the space, but before they had time to echo back, Sherlock had speared into him. He buried himself in one relentless push until he was entirely draped against John’s chest. 

John breathed in and out, feeling the burn and stretch radiate throughout his body. His blood pulsed in time with his cock. Long, graceful fingers stroked his face. He opened his eyes. 

Sherlock stared down at him, startlingly close. “Good?”

John had fantasized, before, that he’d chosen to be with Sherlock. The fantasies had allowed him to perform his duties, but he hadn’t noticed when they’d stopped being necessary. God help him, he wanted this, wanted Sherlock. The man infuriated and perplexed John, but he also treated him like a man: like he mattered beyond what his body could provide. 

Sherlock wore a slight frown at John’s silence. “Not good?”

“Good.” John grinned. He didn’t need to pretend. “Very good.”

Sherlock braced his hands against the table, and drew out slowly. He snapped his hips forward, sending his cock driving into John with devastating skill. John groaned and slumped back against the smooth, hard wood of the table. Sherlock pounded into him relentlessly, making the ancient table creak. 

“God yes,” John gasped. He didn’t need to pretend any more. If he were free, he’d want this. He’d beg for it, if Sherlock asked. Pleasure built inside him on every thrust. His hands scrabbled for something to grip, but found only smooth wood. He hooked an ankle around Sherlock’s waist to urge him deeper. There—Sherlock hit the spot that sent John bucking up against him. 

“No,” Sherlock growled. “I changed my mind. I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. All of this belongs to me. All of you. No one could learn you like I can. Each time, I discover something new about how you work. I know what you enjoy. No one else could please you like this. I’m right. I know I’m right.” 

Sherlock’s clever fingers wrapped around John’s straining cock and made him scream. John’s back arched, impaling him more deeply on Sherlock’s cock as he howled his release to the rafters. 

John lay panting, boneless and wrecked, as Sherlock pulled out of him. John kept his ankle hooked around Sherlock’s thigh to pen him in. 

Sherlock’s hand sped over his cock as he stared down at John. 

“That’s it,” John urged. “Bloody gorgeous. Come on, love. Let me see you finish.”

Sherlock’s dark eyes fluttered closed, and his face went slack as he spilled his release across John’s naked body. Even fully clothed, he seemed as bare as John. Totally stripped of artifice, in that moment he seemed as natural and unashamed as an animal. John’s spent cock gave a feeble twitch at the sight, a warning of an attraction—no, more than that: affection--that only grew with each day John spent in this man’s power. 

Sherlock stumbled back to slump into an overstuffed chair. He licked a stray drop of come from his palm before tucking himself back into his trousers. Silence settled over the library once more as they caught their breath. 

At last, Sherlock’s voice came floating to John’s ears. “You realize I did summon you here with the intention of doing some research.”

“Yes,” John said drowsily. “The game is on, after all.”

“It is. Yes it is.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. “I’ll start pulling rare editions, you scan the indices.” He stalked towards the nearest shelf. He ran his fingertips over the spines of the books, as if he could read them by touch, but he never took his eyes off John. “Do get up, John. You’re terribly distracting.”

“Of course, sir. Whatever you want.” John dragged his fingers through the stripes of semen on his belly, smearing them across his bare chest. 

“Stop it! I want...” Sherlock tore his eyes away from John and slumped against the shelf. “The work, John. There’s the work.”

“Of course.” Contrite, John slid off the table and began gathering his scattered clothes. No matter how natural it seemed between them when they were both sweaty and spent in the wake of their orgasms, John still had a role to fulfil, and orders to follow.

Sherlock appeared behind John and grasped him by the shoulders. “After the banquet tonight,” he promised.

“Good.” John smiled. “I want a chance to make _you_ scream.”  
\--

 

The personal slaves’ lounge was deserted, but in his cramped office, Lestrade found Jim behind the desk with three laptops perched on top of the piled-up paperwork. 

“Oh, sorry. Sally was having trouble uploading some files this morning, so I was updating software. I thought you’d be in audiences all day.”

“No.” Although Jim couldn’t have meant it as an accusation, Lestrade felt the failure in his admission; no matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to be the man Mycroft needed right now. “I have a break.”

“Did he send you away? Lord Mycroft?” Jim peered up at him, eyes bright in the glow of multiple computer screens.

“No,” Lestrade said slowly.

“Oh. I thought, because...” Jim shook his head and busied himself with shutting down the laptops. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What, Jim?”

“One of the guests said something to me last night, about a permanent change.” John wound up the power cord for a laptop, carefully avoiding Lestrade’s eyes.

“You were with Colonel Moran Last night. Is everything alright? What did he say?”

“Just that it seemed almost criminal to deprive Lord Mycroft of such a valuable asset. He could have meant anything,” Jim hastened to add. “I didn’t think Lord Mycroft would ever sell you.” 

The clipped end of the sentence in Jim’s Dublin accent reminded Lestrade of the bill of sale he’d seen on Mycroft’s desk. He didn’t remember the numbers, but he felt sure one of the entries had borne the IRE country code. Lestrade’s realization must have shown on his face, because Jim’s eyes widened, and he clutched a laptop to his chest. 

“Is he selling someone?” His voice dropped to a weak whisper. “Is he... did he mean me? Is he selling me?”

“I haven’t heard anything, Jim. Colonel Moran might have meant anything.” Lestrade dredged up an encouraging smile despite the sick feeling in his belly. “Don’t upset yourself over something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Jim stumbled forward and clutched Lestrade’s arm. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Lestrade—Excuse me, sorry Jim.” Sally appeared in the doorway of the tiny office, creating an even more claustrophobic space.

“I’ll come back later.” Jim scurried out, clutching his computer.

“What’s his problem?” Sally closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Have you heard about the Ambassador’s personal slave?”

“Soo Lin Yao. I just found out.”

“I already spoke to the Ambassador’s agent about the body. He wanted it disposed of, so the guards are taking care of the cremation. Housekeeping is over there now, scrubbing out the room.”

“Already? But the evidence—No.” Lestrade’s logic caught up to him, and he shook his head. “Of course there’s not going to be an investigation.”

“The Ambassador said it was an internal matter,” Sally said tightly. “‘Disposing of unwanted property.’”

“Christ.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand down his face. “I never saw him strike her. Never even gave her a harsh word. Not in front of me, in any case.” Lestrade slumped into his desk chair. “That poor girl. Can you... I know it might be classified, considering her position, but I’d like to check her registration, find out if she had a family. Anyone waiting for her contract to be done.”

“I’ll ask Jim to take a look. He’s got a way with electronic records.” Sally remained leaning against the door. “Also, the Ambassador’s going to need a replacement for tonight.”

“He’s not having one of my people,” Lestrade snapped.

“Sir?”

“Lord Mycroft’s people, I mean. He won’t.” Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What about that lot you’ve been orienting? The circus slaves. Yellow Butterfly whatsit? Anyone who qualifies?”

“Yellow Dragon Circus. Maybe.” Sally looked doubtful. “It’s rather an eclectic lot, sir.”

“Let him have the bloody erotic contortionist, for all I care.”

“Sir.” Sally’s eyes flitted to the door behind her. Of course, she was right. The house had ears, and Lestrade was out of line.

“I know. He’s a guest. It’s none of my business, and it’s not my decision.” Lestrade clutched the edge of his desk and squeezed until his fingers turned white. “He’s entitled to the best we can give him.”

“Things like this happen all the time, Gregory.” Sally ventured a step closer.

“Not under this roof.” Lestrade knew, he’d learned over and over, that he had no power to keep anyone safe, but each new lesson hurt as much as the first. 

“Will you talk to that new lot?” Sally held up a file folder. “I’ve briefed them on procedures for tonight, but they don’t seem particularly keen.”

Lestrade frowned at the folder. A stray bit of information tugged at his memory. “Sally, where did they come through customs?”

“Portsmouth, I think. Why?”

“No reason.” Lestrade shook off the deep weariness that had settled in his bones and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, of course I’ll talk to him. Lead the way.”  
\--

 

John tapped his fingers on the sturdy oak table he’d recently been lying on as he regarded the volume Sherlock had given him. “So you knew it was a Hangzhou code, you just weren’t sure how to decipher it?” John flipped through the pages and found the one Sherlock had asked for. “Here.”

Sherlock took the book from John and ran his finger down the page. “There are any number of variations, but the reference would need to be something readily available: a book the Tong could find wherever they went. You provided the answer to that yourself: _Freedom Through Obedience_ , required reading.“ He scribbled a note on the paper in front of him before handing the book back. “But as I said, it’s not the cipher that’s important. I couldn’t see it until that last set of numbers you brought me. Then it was only a matter of cross-referencing editions. Three eighty-one.”

John flipped to the back of the book. “You knew Soo Lin had been leaving messages.” He stopped at three eighty-one and turned the book around for Sherlock to see.

“Of course.” Sherlock wrote down a single word. “But _why_? Was she working with the Ambassador or against him? This latest development confirms my suspicion. One twenty-two.”

“He _murdered_ her, Sherlock.” John found the page and passed off the book once more.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock made another note. “Forty-six.”

“Oh right, of course.” John found his jaw clenched tight. “‘Wilful property destruction,’ whatever the appropriate term is whenever one of your lot snuffs out one of us. Bloody inventory reduction.” 

“I agree she was murdered.” Sherlock found the page himself and scribbled on his notepad. “But I doubt the Ambassador is the culprit.”

“Oh.” John considered that. “He got someone to do it for him.”

“Unlikely. He didn’t want her dead. No, the killer is a person who’s arrived recently. One who can move through the house unnoticed.”

“A slave.”

“Very good, John. Another guest’s, most likely, or someone else in the Ambassador’s entourage. Someone well-placed to observe the Ambassador’s movements and report to his employer.”

“The Chinese Empire has someone checking up on its own Ambassador?”

“No, his employer. Do keep up, John, you know I loathe repeating myself. Moriarty.” Sherlock said the word with a flourish, as if he liked the taste of it. 

John frowned. “Moriarty is paying the Chinese Ambassador?”

“I believe there’s an echo in here.”

“How do you--?”

Sherlock flipped his notepad around to show John the words he’d copied, the words signified by the numbers carved into Soo Lin’s flesh: 

_more  
ray   
art   
he_.

John stared at the message. “How--?”

“Come on.” Sherlock snatched up the piece of paper, shoved it in his pocket, and strode to the door. John hurried to keep up.

“Soo Lin was running out of time. The pressure must have increased recently to drive her to such extreme measures.”

“What measures?” John fell into step beside Sherlock. 

“Carving those symbols into her arms and legs. It would have hurt.”

“Carving... what?” John pictured the cuts in Soo Lin’s skin: angry slices into her delicate skin. It would have hurt quite a lot, and yet she’d barely flinched when John had bandaged her wounds. 

“You must have noticed the cuts were self-inflicted,” Sherlock went on. “The angle of the cuts, the discrepancy of the depth of entry between the right and left arms—“

“Why?” John ran a few steps to catch up to Sherlock as he swept around a corner. “Why would she do that?”

“So that someone would _observe_ , John.”

“Someone who?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock spun to a stop in the middle of the corridor. “She hadn’t received a satisfactory response to her other messages, so she had to try something new. She was desperate enough to seek help from an outsider: me.”

“How could she possibly know the message would get to you?”

“Simple,” Sherlock said, though his delighted grin suggested he’d enjoy explaining it anyway. “First she had to know I could decipher the code. At lunch yesterday, I was looking at photos of the painted ciphers and the deciphered messages on my mobile. I dropped my phone under the table and, having no personal slave of my own in attendance, asked Soo Lin to retrieve it for me. Yes, I took the opportunity of your absence to dine with Mycroft. You can thank me later.

“The rest is simple. Between Molly’s welts and Mrs. Hudson’s hip, you’ve worked up quite a reputation as a good Samaritan. Soo Lin knew a serious enough injury would entice you to help her. You would, of course, faithfully report what you saw to your master. I daresay she didn’t expect Moriarty’s agent to catch up with her quite so quickly.”

John recalled the way Soo Lin had spoken to him, even knowing he couldn’t understand. “Or she knew, and she did it anyway.”

“Unimportant.” Sherlock took off down the corridor again, and John followed. “In any case, she delivered an essential piece of data.”

“Which helps us how, exactly?”

“Here we are.” Sherlock stopped at one of the identical doors spaced along the hallway and produced a thin card from his pocket. 

“Whose room is this?” John asked.

A swipe through the security panel next to the door produced a beep and a green light. “Come along.”

John had no choice but to follow Sherlock into a closet-sized room that held a padded bench and a dresser with a number of brushes and other mysterious implements neatly arranged on top. “What--?”

“Dressing room. Where the valet waits to be summoned.”

“Who in the house has a—“

Sherlock opened the next door onto a palatial room done in rich wood panelling and soothing creams. The remains of a fire crackled in the oversized hearth, throwing shadows on the walls. A door on the far side opened onto a huge white-tiled en suite. A monstrous desk with a green lamp stood laden with papers. “Lord Mycroft’s rooms.”

“Yes, John. We’ll make a detective of you yet.” Sherlock stepped inside and motioned for John to follow.

“Where did you get that card?”

“Lestrade is notoriously bad at remembering new codes, which are changed daily for the master suite. At last security just gave him an override card. I pick pocketed him.” Sherlock closed the door, made a bee-line for the desk, and began shuffling through papers. 

“Alright,” John sighed. “Taking my objections to pick pocketing Lestrade as given—“

“Tedious.”

“Why are we here?” He stepped cautiously into the semi-dark room, careful not to touch any of the ancient and expensive-looking furniture.

“Looking for clues.”

“To...?”

“You work it out.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand and continued his ransacking of Mycroft’s desk.

“If Soo Lin was getting desperate, that means whatever she wanted to prevent was happening soon. At the banquet?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If the Ambassador is working for Moriarty, then Soo Lin shouldn’t have anything to fear from him.” John risked perching on the edge of a wooden chair next to the desk. “Perhaps Moriarty is threatening her--no. She’s not important enough. But she doesn’t like whatever it is Moriarty has planned. Maybe she offered to defect to the British Empire in exchange for protection, and Moriarty found out.”

“That’s actually a plausible idea,” Sherlock said without looking up. 

“Thanks.”

“Totally wrong, of course. For shame, John.” Sherlock threw him a despairing look. “You should never theorize in advance of facts.”

Lights blazed suddenly from overhead. John jumped to his feet and whirled to see Anthea standing in the doorway, mobile in hand and eyebrow raised.

“Lord Sherlock, what a surprise,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “May I ask what brings you to Lord Mycroft’s rooms, sir?”

“John and I are making a project of shagging in every room on the estate, and Mycroft does have such a sumptuous bed.” Sherlock swept around the desk and linked his arm with John’s.

“Well, perhaps another time, sir.” She held the door open.

“Come on, sir.” John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him from the room, keeping his head down so Anthea wouldn’t see his furious blush.

“Was that really necessary, _sir_?” he asked once they were in the safety of the corridor

“No, but it was fun.” Sherlock headed down the hallway in the opposite direction from which they’d come.

“Did you get what you needed, at least?”

“More than that.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and his fingers began dancing over the surface at an impressive speed. “I know what’s going to happen tonight.”

“Besides a fancy dinner party?”

“Much better than that, John.” Sherlock grinned, and his eyes danced with the peculiar mix of joy and madness John knew well. “The Chinese Ambassador is going to be assassinated.”  
\--


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade had always hated press conferences. As a DI, he’d been utter crap at rattling off reassuring nonsense. He’d preferred instead to get the facts out as quickly as possible and return to work. He felt much the same about tonight’s muster. Standing before the assembled personal slaves of Mycroft’s household supplemented by a troupe of Chinese slaves and an assortment of visiting personal slaves, Lestrade thought for the first time that he might almost prefer a room of blood-thirsty reporters. 

“While the table’s being cleared, there will be some light entertainment, provided by the slaves of the Yellow Dragon Circus, here.” He nodded towards the assembled Chinese imports, who stood apart from the others, in an unsmiling knot. “After that, dancing and drinks until the wee hours. Those of you who aren’t assigned to a specific lord or lady, if you find yourselves engaged for the night, kindly drop a notice in the system so we know who’s occupied where.”

Lestrade looked out at the familiar faces of the slaves in his care. On a long sofa, Sally perched a discreet distance from Anderson. Molly sat curled on the floor in front of the overstuffed chair where Jim lounged. The others had arranged themselves around the room as artfully as any slave designer might have displayed them. Though they’d already been drilled extensively on tonight’s events, still they listened attentively. Lestrade wished he dared warn them about the man who’d threatened John. They all looked to him for guidance, and he didn’t feel right sending them off for the night knowing that loose in the house was a man with no qualms about assaulting a helpless slave. But Lestrade couldn’t know for certain who to trust. As much as he hated to imagine that one of his own could betray them, his years in Lord Mycroft’s service had been a hard lesson in reserving judgement. 

“Now,” he continued. “There’s been extra security added to the—“

The lounge door slammed open. John rushed in with his jacket buttons askew and his bow tie undone. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late.” He dropped into a chair in the corner and settled his hands on his knees. “Sorry.”

“Right.” Lestrade kept from heaving a sigh by tremendous force of will. “That’s about all. I don’t want to keep you from your duties. I’m certain you’ll make me—and Lord Mycroft—proud. Please, if you can, keep a weather eye on our visiting slaves, and help them if they need anything. Yes?”

“Yes, sir,” the other slaves chorused. 

With that, the meeting began to break up. Sally grabbed Anderson’s hand and tugged him into the corridor, while the Yellow Dragon lot stood in the corner, conversing in hushed tones until all the others had filed out. Their de facto leader, a poised woman named Shan, gave Lestrade a shallow bow before ushering her charges out the door. 

At last only John was left. He sat fumbling with his bow tie and cursing under his breath. 

“Alright?” Lestrade asked. 

“Never learned how to do these things.”

“Let me. Lord Mycroft can tie his own well enough, but sometimes he deigns to allow me.” Lestrade motioned John to his feet and took charge of the crumpled bow tie.

“You’d think a lazy git like Sherlock would want someone to dress him, but he actually prefers to do it himself. Probably thinks no one else could manage to make him look so good.”

“He always dressed smartly, even when he was—Well, even when he was going through rough times. It’s just part of who he is.” Lestrade shook his head at John’s questioning look. The story of Sherlock’s past wasn’t his to tell. “Listen. I haven’t turned anything up about the man who assaulted you.”

“Right. I hardly thought he’d turn himself in.” John rolled his shoulders, and Lestrade could see the soldier in him straightening John’s back. “In any case, that may be the least of our problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” John said firmly. “Only Sherlock’s got one of his theories, as always.”

“Anything you care to share?” Lestrade asked without much hope. He knew he wouldn’t betray Mycroft’s secrets to another slave, even one, like John, whom he considered a friend. He expected no less from John.

“No. Sorry.” John straightened his jacket and made for the door, then turned back. “Yes, actually. Sherlock stole your passcard.” John dug in the front pocket of his jacket and produced the thin rectangle of plastic.

“Damn him.” Lestrade accepted the card and tucked it back in his pocket. He hadn’t even noticed its absence. Getting slow, he was, and careless. He dredged up a smile for John. “It’s not the first time.”

John leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is there something in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, something he’d want? I don’t know, a piece of evidence or something?”

“Evidence of what?” Lestrade’s mind flipped through its catalogue of all the important documents he’d seen in Lord Mycroft’s room, and his memory of the files Mycroft casually put away when Lestrade came near. Certainly among all that sensitive information were things Lord Sherlock would be better off not knowing.

“Never mind. It’s not important.” John started for the door, but Lestrade caught him by the arm and held on. 

“Evidence of what, John?” 

John pursed his lips and looked at Lestrade with the same implacable stubbornness Lestrade had seen Sherlock exhibit.

Lestrade slowly released his grip. “Fine. I know how he is. Just, tell me when you can, will you? There’s enough that could go wrong tonight already without... Well, you know.”

“I know.” John threw himself down on a settee in a slump none of the house’s other personal slaves would have allowed themselves.

“It’s a bloody circus. An actual circus.” Lestrade claimed the other half of the settee with a slightly more refined version of John’s careless sprawl. “A house full of guests, full half of whom have some deep-seated grudge against another guest, an Imperial prince known for drinking excessively, not to mention a troupe of Imperial soldiers camped in the cellar.”

“There are soldiers here?” John threw a cautious glance Lestrade’s way.

“Not regular Army,” Lestrade said quickly. “Her Imperial Highness’s personal troop. They’re guarding some intruder found on the grounds a few nights back. They’ll be more at the banquet.”

“An intruder... Oh.” A look of understanding crept onto John’s face.

“I don’t want to know if you and Sherlock had anything to do with that. Just—don’t tell me.” Lestrade almost tugged a hand through his hair, but remembered in time that he shouldn’t ruffle it. He gave John’s bow tie one last tug instead and rose to his feet. “Are you ready for this?” 

“You say that as if you think I’m not.”

“It can be an uncomfortable feeling, being on display.” Lestrade had memorized the titles that went with the guests’ faces. He knew how many of the Empire’s powerful would be watching and judging tonight: not only Lord Sherlock’s new acquisition, but also Lord Mycroft’s old slave. Lestrade expected he’d be privy to his fair share of comments tonight suggesting appropriate replacements. John was likely to hear a variety of frank assessments as well. “There will be a lot of important people scrutinizing you tonight.”

“Let them.” John stood and buttoned his jacket. He looked almost presentable. “I’m not their slave. I’m Sherlock’s.”

Lestrade couldn’t repress a laugh. “You surely are.”  
\--  
 

 

“It’s a ridiculous investment. The rail system in the Baltics is crumbling. Are you trying to squander your new wife’s fortune, or are you really that stupid?”

“Sir, allow me to refill your drink.” John stepped between Sherlock and Captain Lennox to add a splash of wine to Sherlock’s mostly-full glass. Half-deaf Lady Worsley, on Sherlock’s right, had given up on Sherlock before the first course, but the irrepressibly cheerful Captain Lennox kept trying to engage Sherlock in conversation. John might have felt sorry for the man, if he hadn’t so enjoyed seeing someone else as thoroughly confused by Sherlock as he so often felt. John stood fussing with the placement of the wine decanter until Captain Lennox had turned away and established a conversation with the red-faced Lord to his left before kneeling again at Sherlock’s side. 

“Serving wine is the table slaves’ duty,” Sherlock pointed out

“My duty is making certain you don’t get thrown out of the feast before we... What is it we’re here to do, anyway?” John lowered his voice below the murmur of the crowd. “Shouldn’t we be alerting the police?”

“They’d ruin everything.” Sherlock sipped the wine, which Mrs. Hudson had mentioned cost more than her contract, made a face like he’d swallowed vinegar, and slammed down the glass. “They’d put the Ambassador under heavy guard, tip off the assassin, and he’d disappear. We’d only be delaying the inevitable. No, we need to capture the assassin and learn about his employer.”

John leaned in closer. “Moriarty, you mean.”

“The kind of opponent who can plan an assassination right under Mycroft’s nose.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together and fairly squirmed in his seat. “Oh, he’s clever.”

“It sounds like you’re in love with him, a bit.” John sat back on his heels.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock favoured him with a disdainful glare. “It’s difficult enough to be in love with a single person at a time. How could anyone possibly love more than one?” He threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

John broke his deferential posture to steal a glance at Sherlock’s face. He was the very picture of petulant nobility. John stifled a smile. “Well, I hope you have some kind of plan.”

“I’d hoped we might not have to sit through all eight courses.”

“What, you were hoping there’d be a murder at table?” John asked, wondering when such questions had become at least half-serious.

“Admit it: it would make the evening more interesting.” Sherlock sipped at the apparently offensive wine again. “I’ve already deduced the vintage Mycroft selected for each course. He would plan eight courses, the gluttonous— “

“Maybe if you tried to enjoy yourself—“

“I’m working, John. And I might stab Captain Lennox with my dessert fork if we’re forced to sit here much longer.”

“Don’t stab anyone,” John advised. “We won’t be able to catch the murderer if you’re hauled off by Imperial soldiers.” He didn’t think his master would indulge in physical violence to go with his verbal barbs, but he took the occasion of a table slave’s bringing a new course to move Sherlock’s knife to a strategically inconvenient spot on the table. “Go on, tell me who you think it is.”

“This isn’t a guessing game, John. What I do isn’t a parlour trick.”

“If you get it right, I’ll give you a reward.”

Sherlock peered down at him. “What sort of reward?”

“Lestrade says he sometimes motivates Lord Mycroft by offering him a prize. Makes things sporting.”

“Prize?” Sherlock took a dainty bite of the dish before him—apparently some sort of paté—while projecting perfect disinterest. 

“Something nice he can do for Lord Mycroft. Something _fun_ ,” John said slowly. Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. “He meant sex, Sherlock.”

“Oh please, John. I wasn’t hungry before. With the image of those two, I won’t even be able to look at the food.” Sherlock signalled a slave to remove his plate.

“Sorry I mentioned it.” John sat still and kept watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock folded and refolded his napkin three times before asking, “What kind of reward did you have in mind?”

John hid his smile by bowing his head. “What would you like?”

“I have incomplete data in some areas.” Sherlock’s voice dropped so low John felt it more than heard it. “You said you’d make me scream.”

“There are lots of ways to do that.” Several options scrolled vividly through John’s mind, like battle plans. “Remember, I actually had to acquire some skills in my years as a free man.”

“We haven’t yet... That is, I haven’t experimented with...” Sherlock crumpled the napkin in both hands. “I want to be the receptive partner.”

“Oh.” John could see it clearly. Sherlock laid out beneath him, imperious and demanding as ever, ordering John _faster, harder, more._ “Yes, I can do that.”

“Only if you like,” Sherlock draped the napkin over his lap and smoothed it out quickly. “Many slaves prefer not to participate in that manner. Too much active involvement, apparently. Some find the emotional implications—“

“Sherlock, I want to.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s ankle, where no one was likely to notice such an impertinent gesture. He dared to dip a thumb under Sherlock’s trouser leg to feel his bare skin, just for an instant, before he released his hold and dropped both hands against his knees to resume the appropriate posture. “First you have to earn your prize. So tell me, who do you think it is?”  
\--

 

Lestrade craned his neck to see around the assembled guests until he caught sight of a straw-blond slave standing beside Lord Sherlock. Lestrade allowed himself to relax a fraction. He’d nearly lost sight of John once, earlier in the evening, when the guests had streamed into the ballroom after the meal. It had only been a moment—John had appeared from behind a column right where he should be: at Lord Sherlock’s side. 

Lestrade hoped Mycroft hadn’t noticed his divided attention, or if he had, that he understood the reason for it. Satisfied that John wasn’t currently being murdered, Lestrade returned his attention—a portion of it anyway—to the after-dinner entertainment. The lion’s share of his awareness he reserved for observing the guests. Lord Dixon had chosen a seat next to Lady Moore, a promising development for Mycroft’s West Country project. Jim knelt at the feet of Colonel Moran, who had a meaty hand curled possessively around the slave’s shoulder. The young prince leaned forward in his chair with an enraptured grin. The prince’s slaves were twins: his age or perhaps a year or two older, they wore deeply veed shirts to show off their trim, muscular chests. The moved in unison, like a pair of matched horses. Lestrade had heard a rumour, shared by Lady Worsley’s doe-eyed personal slave with a too-sweet smile, that the twins would be replaced before the year was out: their novelty seemed to be wearing thin.

The slaves of the other guests were likewise beautifully attired and perfectly behaved, conforming to the highest standards of personal service. Lestrade resisted the urge to straighten his bow tie—he never managed to tie his own as neatly as he could for others—and turned his attention instead to the performers. On the platform erected for the evening at one end of the room, a team of tumblers flew back and forth across the stage. The whole assemblage appeared thoroughly engrossed in the performance. Apparently Mycroft had chosen the entertainment well. 

“Gregory.”

Lestrade looked up to see his master’s eyes still trained on the performance, maintaining a perfect expression of what Lestrade might call invested indifference. “Yes, sir?”

“Are you enjoying the entertainment?”

Lestrade puzzled over how to answer appropriately before settling on, “The guests seem to be, my lord.”

“Mm. I’ve never been fond of the circus, either.” Mycroft turned away from the performance to look down at Lestrade. “What would you prefer?”

“I’m not much for event planning, sir.”

“No, Gregory. For yourself. What would you like to do of an evening?”

“I... I don’t quite...” Lestrade stared at his master, trying to read the right answer in his face.

“I would have thought you’d suggest a football match. I know you enjoy football.”

“Yes, sir.” Lestrade flushed to remember the casual defiance with which he’d joined the gardeners and stable boys in footie on the east lawn years ago. “I’d hoped you forgotten about that.”

“No.” Mycroft looked back to the performance. A shadow of a frown marred the neutrality of his expression. “I find you occupy an ever-increasing amount of space in my mind.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Lestrade bowed his head. 

“That wasn’t a complaint.”

Applause filled the ballroom as the tumblers stood at the edge of the platform and bowed. Shan, who’d been leading the entertainments, appeared in her decorative collar, elaborate headdress, and traditional robe. She raised her hands for silence. “From the distant, moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird spider.”

A bare-chested slave in a mask and billowy trousers dropped from the ceiling in a swirl of ribbons. He performed a series of intricate manoeuvres with the ribbons, pulling himself up and swinging within touching distance of the rapt crowd. 

Lestrade barely noticed him. Instead, he attuned himself to his master, who appeared perfectly content to focus on the performance. Lestrade puzzled over Mycroft’s bizarre questions. His strange behaviour of the past few days could have been explained by stress over the banquet planning, but that couldn’t be the entirety of the problem. Mycroft had acknowledged that he’d brought Lord Sherlock here for some purpose. John’s careful non-answers about the information Sherlock found must be somehow related. If the case had lead them to Moriarty, it might be important to alert Mycroft. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to break John’s trust and worry Mycroft unnecessarily. Lestrade’s less-than-desirable traits were enough on display tonight without adding paranoia to the list.

Lestrade made himself focus on the stage. The performer had abandoned the ribbons to demonstrate other feats of his skill. He leapt from the platform to one of the marble columns that lined the ballroom. He climbed the column easily, though Lestrade could have sworn there were no footholds, no place even for a finger to grip. Like the outside walls of the estate: unassailable. 

The bird spider waved from the top of the column, near enough to touch the ceiling, and then abruptly slid down, to the gasps of the crowd. When he jumped back onto the platform to bow, the crowd rewarded him with cheers and cries of “bravo.”

The orchestra began to play a jaunty tune as the slave billed as an erotic contortionist took to the platform. 

Lestrade watched the bird spider retreat behind the curtain. Tension thrummed in his chest as his eyes swept over the cheerful crowd. He unfolded from his cushion and bowed to his master. “I’m sorry, sir. May I be excused a moment?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but nodded his agreement. “Of course.” When Lestrade turned to leave, Mycroft caught him by the wrist. “Gregory. Hurry back.” He released Lestrade and turned his attention to the stage.  
\--

 

From his place at Sherlock’s side, John glanced around the hall, now cleared and transformed into a vast dance floor. His eyes settled on the two white-blond slaves following behind the prince as he greeted admirers. “What about one of them?”

Sherlock made a noise of derision.

“The assassin could be a slave,” John muttered. 

Sherlock continued his careful scan of the crowd without looking at John. “Improbable, but not impossible. Not an option to be eliminated yet.”

“Well, who’s most likely to be a killer?” John tried to follow Sherlock’s gaze, but his height didn’t provide him a very good vantage point. “It’s never who you think it is, is it? That bloke the in cellar, for instance, the one who tried a bit of target practice on you the other night, he’s unlikely to cause any trouble.”

Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at John. “In the cellar?”

“Apparently Mycroft has the man locked up in some dark, dank cells of his.”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s eyes slowly widened. John could almost see the wheels turning inside Sherlock’s head. “Oh, of course. I should have seen it sooner. How do you sneak a trained killer in through Mycroft’s security? You let the guards bring him through the front door. Stay here!” Sherlock rushed forward through the crowd, elbowing lords and ladies out of the way. 

John hurried after him and grabbed him by the wrist. He hissed in Sherlock’s ear, “If you think I’m going to let you go rushing off into danger—“

“I need you to keep an eye on the Chinese Ambassador.” Sherlock pried John’s hand off and nodded towards the room beyond. “Don’t let him out of your sight, understand?”

“Be careful.” John stood with his hands at his sides and watched Sherlock sweep through the crowd and out of the hall. When Sherlock disappeared from sight, John turned his attention to the press of people around him. The crowd of joined pairs—masters and their slaves—moved in patterns as practiced and intricate as any dance: greeting friends, snubbing rivals, possibly making political deals. Lestrade could have explained it all, but he’d ducked out during the performance—lucky sod—and hadn’t returned. 

At last, John spotted the Chinese Ambassador at the edge of the dance floor, talking to a stout, balding lord. He ducked his head and wove through the crowd, trying to ignore the conspicuously empty space in front of him where he master should be. He’d never felt the confinement of his collar so keenly as now, when he faced all the limitations of his station without any of the benefits of an influential master at his side.

As John drew closer, the orchestra, installed on a dais at the end of the hall, began to play. The Chinese Ambassador held out his hand to Molly—apparently she’d been conscripted as his attendant this evening—and drew her onto the dance floor. John quickened his pace, skirting the edge of the floor to keep them in view. They glided with the swirling music, disappearing behind this couple or that. John collided with a tall, willowy slave, who snapped at him in German. When John untangled himself, he could barely make out the figures of Molly and the Chinese Ambassador in the crowd of dancers. He dodged a table slave carrying a tray of champagne flutes, then spotted Sally, elegant in a white sheath dress, standing alone. 

He wove his way to her side. “Sally! I need your help.” He snatched the wine glass from her hand and deposited it on a passing slave’s tray. “Do you know how to lead?”

“Of course, but—“

“Come on, please.” John tugged her onto the floor, arranged his hands in the appropriate position, and applied a pleading look.

More out of an apparent wish to avoid impeding the other dancers than any sympathy for John, Sally tugged him into motion.

“Can we just--?” John nodded behind Sally. “That way. Towards the orchestra.”

Sally complied, angling John’s clumsy steps across the floor. “What is this all about?”

“Nothing.” John couldn’t keep his feet moving and come up with a convincing lie at the same time. “Who are you attending?”

“Lady Savage. She’s gone off dancing with Lord Fontecilla.”

“You should keep an eye on her, then.”

“Don’t presume to tell me my duty.” Sally dragged him out of the way of an oncoming couple. “Where’s your master?”

“A bit busy.” John didn’t like the idea of Sherlock running after an assassin on his own, but by all accounts the man had being doing such mad things long before John came into his life.

“Busy causing problems,” Sally scowled.

“He can do as he wishes,” John snapped back. “He’s a Holmes.”

“Exactly.” Sally pulled John to a stop beside a column at the edge of the dance floor. “John, you shouldn’t trust him. He’ll let you down.”

“Excuse me?” John tore his eyes away from the Chinese Ambassador, currently leading Molly in a wide circle around the floor, to look at Sally.

“You should never trust a master, in general,” she said with the conviction of one who’d learned firsthand. “They’ll always let you down. He will, too.”

“That’s not what I’ve seen.”

“Really?” Sally crossed her arms over her chest, creasing the elegant lines of her dress. “He does this. He gets off on it. This, these puzzles. Bet he sees you the same way. Just a little distraction, something for him to play with.” 

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.” She turned away from John to look out at the whirling dancers. “One day he’ll come back to Lord Mycroft looking for one of us to be his whipping boy. They always get rid of us in the end. He’ll drop you, too, see if he doesn’t.”

John forced on a polite smile. Sally might know this side of society much better than he, but John knew Sherlock. After one night, he’d found himself letting down his defences, letting Sherlock in, when his soldier’s instincts should have fought at every turn. He’d yet to regret his actions. “That’s my lookout, isn’t it?”

“I’m saying this because you’re one of us. We’re disposable to them. There’s always more where we came from. And no one else will look out for us if we don’t do it for each other, yeah?”

“Yeah.” John swallowed against his collar. Then a hand planted itself firmly against his back, causing him to start.

“You have something that belongs to me, I believe.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled over his shoulder. 

“Pardon me, sir.” Sally bowed to Sherlock and hastily withdrew, with one last warning glance at John. 

“Where’s the Ambassador?” Sherlock stepped into place at John’s side.

“Far end of the floor, there.” 

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him towards the dancers. “Come on, John.”

“Wait, I can’t!”

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s back and curled a hand around his hip. “Look at me, John. Follow me.”

Sherlock moved, and John stumbled forward. Sally frowned at them from the edge of the dance floor. 

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said. As much to avoid Sally’s glare as anything, John complied. “The violin has the melody. Do you hear the rhythm? Good. Now follow.” 

Sherlock moved, and this time John stepped with him. The firm pressure of Sherlock’s hand guided John in the right direction. He danced as confidently as he played the violin, like the music translated movement directly through his limbs. When they joined the flow of the other dancers, John found the steps as easily as falling into a marching cadence. He dared to look, only to find Sherlock grinning at him. His pale, changeable eyes gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers. His hair, which had been carefully coiffed at the beginning of the evening, now tumbled over his forehead in attractive disarray. His skin glowed with the exertion of the chase. He looked every inch a lord, and he was John’s; he’d said so. John banished Sally’s words from his mind and grinned back at Sherlock. “Is there anything you’re not brilliant at?”

“At which I’m not brilliant,” Sherlock corrected.

John ignored him. “Cooking? Boxing?”

“I’ve never found much use for astronomy.” Sherlock’s grin faltered into a scowl. John followed his gaze to see every couple they passed staring at them. “Or at being my brother’s performing monkey.” He steered John to the side of the floor, putting his taller form between John and the curious onlookers.   
“I was right,” Sherlock said, once they’d found a less crowded patch of dance floor. “Sulejmani, an Albanian assassin held in the discipline cells, conveniently escaped an hour ago.”

“He’s loose in the house?” John nearly stumbled, but Sherlock guided him back into rhythm.

“Of course not. I neutralized him.”

“Oh.” John felt a sharp pang of disappointment that the case they’d begun together, Sherlock had finished without him. Then he realized Sherlock didn’t seem particularly pleased, either. “Why do you not seem happy? There’s usually smirking, some grinning, a little light gloating. You look like you swallowed a frog.”

“Something’s missing.” Sherlock stared over John’s shoulder, focusing somewhere beyond the room. “Soo Lin knew the Ambassador was in danger. She tried to get help, but didn’t contact her own government.”

“Sherlock?”

“The Ambassador stayed here after the murder of his son back home. He became paranoid about his daughter’s security, but he didn’t send her home. He had to stay here.”

“Sherlock.”

“Either he had orders from his government—unlikely, considering the small number of communiqués he’s received while in residence here--or Moriarty had some plan for him.”

“Lord Sherlock, sir.” John dug his fingers hard into Sherlock’s arm. When he finally had his master’s attention, he nodded to the far edge of the dance floor. “The Ambassador’s leaving.”  
\--

 

Lestrade stood alone in the darkness of Lord Mycroft’s room. The place was silent, and neat as always. Papers on the desk sat in precise rows. Lestrade ran his hand over the topmost paper of one stack—a draft of a letter to an arms supplier in the People’s Republic of Kyrgyzstan, requesting information about a customer. The next stack was weighted by a memory stick. Below it lay a pile of blank requisition orders. Nothing unusual. Lestrade resisted the urge to shuffle through the rest of the papers, looking for what might have enticed Lord Sherlock. 

Instead, he returned to the corridor and headed out of the family wing, where he nodded at the guard on duty. “Evening, Hopkins.”

“Taking a break from the festivities?” she asked.

“Short one. Is it too terrible being on duty up here tonight?” He nodded towards the courtyard, where the music from the ballroom drifted in from the windows. 

“I prefer it. No one cares if I look bored up here.” She waved him on. “G’night, Greg.”

“Good night.” Lestrade headed downstairs to rejoin his master. He’d been paranoid to think an intruder could have got into Lord Mycroft’s rooms. No matter how well a man climbed, there were guards to deal with, and locked doors as well. Of course, Lord Sherlock had bypassed those systems easily.

Lestrade stopped, turned, and retraced his steps.

“Forget something?” Hopkins asked.

Lestrade offered her a flat smile. “It’s probably nothing.” He returned to Lord Mycroft’s room and scanned his passcard to unlock it. This time, he looked into the en-suite and the dressing room. He came back into the bedroom and stood with his arms folded across his chest. If he were a thief, one who could climb anything, how would he break in? No windows in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, but other rooms on the floor had windows that opened onto the balcony. That still wouldn’t solve the problem of getting into the room unseen. None of the other rooms connected to Lord Mycroft’s. There was no other opening into the room except the door. 

Lestrade turned in a full circle one last time. His eyes rested on the cold fireplace. Usually the house slaves had built a healthy fire by the time, to allow the room to warm before the master’s return, but tonight the ashes of the morning’s dead fire filled the grate. And there on the stone hearth were sooty footprints leading into the room. 

Lestrade turned and ran for the door, but before he could shout, he felt a cloth wrap tight around his throat.  
\--

 

John stopped at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, then peeked around the corner to see the next corridor completely empty. “Perhaps he’s going back to his quarters.”

“Early?” Sherlock scoffed. “Without a slave to attend him? He left Molly skulking ‘round the edges of the dance floor.”

“His own personal slave was just killed,” John pointed out.

“No, something’s wrong.” Sherlock strode down the corridor, looked both ways at the junction, and turned left. John hurried to keep up.

“What? You’ve already neutralized the assassin.”

“The Ambassador’s afraid.”

“He doesn’t know he’s out of danger. I assume you didn’t inform him about Sulejmani.”

“Or he’s _not_ out of danger. Oh. _Oh_.” Sherlock whirled around and grabbed John by the arms. “John, there’s not one crime planned for tonight. There are two.”

“You mean two people want the Ambassador assassinated?”

“No! Well yes, technically. There’s no time. Here.” Sherlock pulled something from his pocket and pressed it into John’s hand.

“Have you been carrying around—Sherlock, really.” John accepted the handgun. It fit into his hand like it belonged there. He slid out the magazine. “At least it’s not loaded. Do you have a fresh clip?”

“Of course not. Ammunition’s in my quarters.”

“Right. Come on, then.” John started back towards the family wing.

“I’ll stay here. Off you go.” Sherlock waved him on.

John planted his feet. “You’ve already faced an assassin once tonight. I don’t fancy the odds of you facing another on your own.”

“The odds of beating a second are not affected by the odds of beating the first. Do you know nothing about statistics?”

“We shouldn’t split up.”

“I can’t watch you every minute, John. I need to find the Ambassador before someone else does. Go.” When John didn’t move, Sherlock huffed in frustration. “Now! That’s an order!”

John raised his chin and stared back at Sherlock until he lowered his gaze. 

“This is the best way of stopping what’s about to happen. Will you go on?” Sherlock asked.

“Fine,” John said. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Sherlock nodded and sped off down the corridor, coat tails trailing behind him dramatically. John spared the sight a quick smile before he settled the gun at his back in the waistband of his trousers and smoothed his jacket over it. He began to walk as quickly as he dared. He passed the guard on duty at the entrance to the family wing—Hodgkins, perhaps—deeply aware that he was a slave carrying a weapon. She merely nodded at him as he passed, and John relaxed a fraction.

As he turned the corner towards Sherlock’s room, he collided with another slave. The man was pale and covered with soot, and clung to John to keep upright. It took John several seconds to recognize him.

“Lestrade! What the hell happened to you?”

“Bird spider,” he croaked, as if that explained something. He straightened up and stood under his own power. “I’m fine. Why are you alone? Where’s Lord Sherlock?”

“No time.” John shook his head. “Listen, someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. Get some help.”

“John!”

John sped off down the corridor without waiting for a reply. Lestrade would bring help or he wouldn’t, but every moment of delay was another moment Sherlock spent alone and in danger.

Sherlock’s room was a chaos of discarded experiments and piles of clothing. A coil of rope perched atop the violin case. A knife speared a pile of papers on the mantel. John jumped over obstacles on his way to the wardrobe, cursing every second of delay, and opened it to find Sherlock’s ammunition stash. He checked one magazine before slipping it into the Sig and pocketed a second. 

He burst out of the room into the darkened corridor and stopped. Sherlock could be anywhere in the building, and between him and John were household guards who wouldn’t be keen on letting an armed slave pass. In Afghanistan, John had once known an Army slave who’d shot a free man, a soldier in the camp: a stupid drunken brawl over a piece of equipment. John had dug two bullets out of the free man’s leg and sent him back to an Empire hospital for recovery. The commander had rounded up all camp personal to watch the slave’s execution by firing squad.

John carefully concealed his loaded weapon, schooled himself into an appropriately deferential posture, and started off as fast as a personal slave should go.   
\--

 

“Secure the personal wing, and check Lord Mycroft’s office as well,” Lestrade told Hopkins. “He should be out cold, but call for back-up before you approach him. There may be other intruders.” 

“Anything else?” she asked. 

“That’s a start.”

“I’m on it.” She reached for her radio: no doubts, no explanation needed, merely calm acceptance of the chain of command. 

The relief at that reaction helped propel Lestrade onwards. He raced down a back staircase that brought him out near the courtyard. Mycroft’s guards recognized him and let him pass on his way outside, though he must have looked a fright. He paused in the courtyard by the pump to wipe the worst of the soot and blood from his face. Nothing could be done now about the red lines around his throat where the bird spider had tried to choke him, but he was as presentable as he could be under the circumstances.

In the ballroom, Lestrade wove through the press of revellers with the skill of a man accustomed to going unnoticed. He spotted Mycroft at the far end of the hall, deep in conversation with Lady Okoye.

He bowed his head before addressing his master. “Pardon me, my lord.” He dared not say more in front of a guest, but he knew his dishevelled appearance could not fail to impress upon Mycroft the urgency of the situation.

“My apologies, Lady Okoye,” Mycroft said with a handsome bow. “A moment, if you please.”

She nodded and moved quickly away with her personal slave, both looking askance at Lestrade.

“Sir—“ Lestrade began.

“You’ve been fighting.”

“I’m fine. Lord Mycroft. Sir.” Lestrade attempted to angle Mycroft away from the crowd without presuming to touch him. “We have a situation. Someone’s trying to assassinate the Chinese Ambassador. There may be--”

“Who told you that?” Mycroft broke in. 

“John Watson. But there’s--”

“Wood!” Mycroft hailed the nearest guard, who jumped to attend him. “Find my brother. Detain him if you can. I need to speak to him immediately. Go.” She sped through the crowd. Mycroft grabbed Lestrade’s arm. “Gregory, have you said anything to anyone else?”

“Of course not, sir. I saw--”

“Good.” Mycroft’s fingers dug into Lestrade’s arms, a clear sign of the tension Mycroft was attempting to keep from his expression. “Good.” 

“Sir, I’ve been trying to tell you, there was an attempted break-in in your quarters. I’m not certain it had to do with the assassination. The intruder was one of the circus troupe.”

Mycroft’s hands fell away, and he straightened to his full height. “Is the area secure?”

“Security’s sweeping it now.”

“Show me.”  
\--

 

John avoided the eyes of each sentry he passed, be they blue-clad guards of Lord Mycroft’s household or red-jacketed Imperial soldiers.

He’d no idea where Sherlock had gone. From the balcony, he could at least see the corridor on three storeys, and perhaps catch a glimpse of his master. The chill night air felt welcome after the stifling confines of the ballroom. 

John crept along the balcony, keeping to the shadows. He had no time to explain himself to curious guards. He scanned the windows opposite, looking for any sign of Sherlock or the Ambassador. Some of the rooms were dark, some had their curtains drawn, but none seemed to contain a maddeningly brilliant, socially deficient Imperial lord.

John turned to head back inside—time was ticking away—when he heard raised voices in the courtyard below. He darted forward to peek over the banister.

Sherlock hurried across the cobblestones with the Chinese Ambassador close on his heels. Distant strains of music from the ballroom masked their conversation, but the sharpness of their voices was unmistakable. Sherlock wrenched open the garden door and gestured the Chinese Ambassador inside. Good thought, that, getting out of the open. Sherlock charged up the grand staircase and came to rest on the first storey landing, near the glass-panelled French doors that led out onto the balcony, still a level below John. 

“No, get away from the windows,” John muttered. He pulled the gun from his waistband. He’d covered comrades in danger zones before; he knew this tense vigilance, checking every window for a hostile face, watching every gesture for the draw of a gun. Even here, there were too many angles from which a sniper could attack. John had never seen the man that shot him. The pain had come from out of nowhere, as if the wound had appeared from within him. For a moment, staring down at the blood, he hadn’t realized what had happened. John tightened his grip on the Sig. That wouldn’t happen to Sherlock.

John let out his breath on a careful exhale. Across the courtyard, he could see his master move—not far, only enough to bring him in front of the French doors. Over the distant strains of music, John couldn’t hope to make out the conversation. Sherlock stepped forward again, creating a convenient target against the light of the corridor. Another even breath. John’s grip on the Sig remained steady. It had to.

Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. A second figure stepped into the frame of the window. At the left edge of John’s vision, on the second-storey balcony across the courtyard, a glint of metal moved. John spared it a glance—just a glance. A rifle and scope, held by a towering bulk of a man. John had seen that rifle before, he thought, before more urgent matters crowded that fact from his mind.

The man was waiting for a shot. John’s eyes followed the angle of the rifle to the window. Sherlock. John rotated his stance. The gun lined up with the opposite balcony. Careful, now: the stone banister provided at least half cover. He wouldn’t have a second chance. Finger on the trigger. Breathe. Squeeze.

The shot echoed off the stone walls. The figure dropped out of sight behind the banister. 

Sherlock grabbed the Ambassador by the arm and pulled him behind the marble column—good thinking, to get under cover—and then dashed out onto the balcony and peered through the darkness towards the direction of the shooting—stupid prat, putting himself at risk. The light blazed behind him, creating a perfect silhouette.

“Get down!” John shouted. Sherlock’s attention snapped to the spot where John stood. John kept his aim steady on the opposite balcony, in case the shooter got up again. “Down!” John ordered, with the snap of command in his voice, and Sherlock stepped back behind cover. The blood pounded in John’s ears, drowning out the music. He thought, for a moment, that he heard the deep thrum of helicopter blades turning, but no: that was only boots pounding on the stone.

John lowered the gun to his side. He had his weapon on the ground by the time the guards reached him. Even as John raised his empty hands, the first red-uniformed Imperial guard slammed the butt of his rifle into John’s head. 

John managed a controlled fall, and tucked his arms over his head to protect himself from further blows. The next guard planted a knee on his back and wrenched his arms back to pin them; he threw his whole weight into keeping John down, despite the lack of resistance. 

The guard above him raised his rifle to strike John again, but a blue-uniformed officer stepped between the redcoat and John: Wood. It was Wood. “That’s enough. He’s neutralized,” she said. “Take him to a holding cell until Lord Mycroft decides what to do with him.”

The guards hauled him to his feet and began half-leading, half-dragging him back inside. The corridor boiled with more guards. The two redcoats holding him pushed through the crowd, and Wood followed. John could make out some shouts through the confusion.

“Lockdown, now! I want a guard at every exit.”

“Sweep the whole wing; there could be more of them.”

“Jesus, it’s a lord he’s shot.” 

“Moran, it’s Colonel Moran.”

Moran. John closed his eyes. A crack shot, with his gun trained on Sherlock. Any remorse he’d felt about pulling the trigger evaporated.

“Fancy that, Lord Sherlock’s little bed slave trying to murder one of his brother’s guests,” said the guard on his left as he hustled John down the stairs. “Wonder what the protocol is for that.”

“Is he dead?” John asked.

“No talking.” The guard on his left tightened his grip on John’s arm, and nearly shoved him off his feet as they reached the ground floor.

“Is he dead, he wants to know. Not yet, lucky boy. Are you hoping he is? If the lord dies, they’ll hang you, live on television. Is that what you wanted? A few minutes of fame?”

“He was going to shoot Lord Sherlock,” John snapped.

“John.” Wood tugged the guard on John’s right out of the way so she could walk next to him. “How do you know he was going to shoot Lord Sherlock?”

“He was waiting until he had a clear shot. The trajectory. I saw him waiting.”

“You’re not a bodyguard, idiot, you’re a bedwarmer,” said the redcoat on his left as he tugged John down the stairs to the basement. “You’d best hope Moran lives. That way you’ll get to keep your miserable life.”

“They’ll castrate you to make you docile,” said the other guard. “Then you’ll get a life sentence of hard labour. Most of you bed slaves sent to those places don’t last long. The other inmates appreciate having a soft-bodied new boy to share around.”

“Stop it,” Wood snapped. “This is Lord Sherlock’s slave, and until there’s been an investigation, he’s not to be mistreated. Not in Lord Mycroft’s house, understand?”

“Wouldn’t want to do anything to upset his Lordship.”

“No, you really wouldn’t,” Wood said grimly.

“Relax, dearie. We were just having a bit of fun.” A redcoat slid the door to John’s cell closed; the lock clicked home with metallic finality. 

John grasped the bars to keep himself upright. “Wood. Please. Will you make certain Lord Sherlock’s safe?”

She nodded before turning on her heel and striding out past the knot of redcoats in the doorway.

John braced his back against the cold stone wall of the cell and slid down to the floor. The room still wobbled around him, but sitting, he at least had less chance of falling down. 

The plain cell had been emptied of all furniture, and the draft from the narrow, high window was even colder than that in his slave quarters. John tucked his knees up to his chest for warmth and held as still as he could, to avoid aggravating his probable concussion. 

He’d stopped the gunman. Sherlock was alive, and hopefully, at least for the moment, out of danger. John thought of the slave he’d known in the Army—the man who’d died by firing squad. He’d had no one to speak for him. It might be that Sherlock would come for John. Or it might be that extricating a slave from the embrace of Imperial justice took too much effort away from Sherlock’s other interests. After all, as Sally said, there were always more where he came from.

John made himself raise his head and look around his prison. At the corner of the cell, a chunk of stone had come loose. It was just the right size to hold in one’s hand and allow a highly effective punch. He slid himself along the floor until he had the best view of the chatting redcoats through the bars of his door. He flexed his fingers around the rough bit of rock, and waited.   
\--

 

Behind the desk in his office, Lord Mycroft sat jotting notes onto a paper, which he handed off to Anthea. She touched Lestrade’s hand as she passed, and shut the door behind her, leaving them in silence. It might have been any other day, with the powerful coming to lay their hopes in front of the Lord of Westminster and points north. Except now, Lestrade stood in front of his master, bringing only questions and uncertainty. 

“Where have they taken John?”

“To a holding cell.”

“I see.” Lestrade fixed his eyes on the floor, a properly deferential stance.

“Gregory. I must.” Mycroft stood and walked slowly around his desk. “It’s the only thing that has a chance of keeping Sherlock at bay while my people deal with the threat.”

“You aren’t required to explain yourself to me, my lord.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft reached for him, but Lestrade stepped away.

“You can only play the villain so long, sir, until it’s no longer playing.”

Mycroft’s hand dropped to his side.

The door rattled, then swung open with a bang as Sherlock burst through. He strode right past Lestrade to stand toe to toe with his brother. “I want him back. Now.”

“You know that’s not possible. He shot a free man. A lord.” Mycroft walked back behind his desk, but Sherlock followed.

“With good cause. He did prevent the assassination of a foreign dignitary.”

“That he did.” Lord Mycroft gritted his teeth. “Even so, there are procedures, Sherlock.”

“This is a grave inconvenience. I don’t want to be without him.” 

“You think a great deal of what you want, Sherlock, and little of anyone else.”

“Very well then.” Sherlock spread his arms. “What is it you want from me?”

Mycroft considered him for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I want assurances that you’ll not go haring off into the hands of our enemies. Should anything happen to me, the responsibilities of our domain would fall to you.”

“God forbid.” Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked over to the darkened window.

“Yes, your concern for my well-being is touching. It’s not like the old days, Sherlock, running around London on your own.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes darted to Lestrade and away again so quickly Lestrade wasn’t certain it had happened at all. 

“You have responsibilities to consider.”

“If I do, they’re _mine_ to consider, not yours.”

Mycroft braced his hands on his desk. “I can’t stand by while you neglect—“

“You’ve never sat idly by in your life.” Sherlock waved a hand at his brother. “You interfere in every—“

“For the good of the Empire,” Mycroft broke in, drowning Sherlock out. “And for this family—“

“So used to having your own way you can’t even— “

“You’re incapable of listening to reason!”

“So you treat me like a child? Taking my toys away has never been an effective way to influence my behaviour.” 

“John Watson is not a toy,” Lestrade snapped. Both Holmes lords turned to face him. He bowed his head. “I apologize, sirs.”

Mycroft tucked his hands behind his back and let out a slow breath before turning back to Sherlock. “He shot a lord. An act like that cannot go unpunished.”

“A moment ago you were full of concern for my welfare. You do remember John acted in my defence as well?”

“I know he did, which is why I have no plans to turn him over to the authorities. These things must be done in the proper way.” Mycroft settled into the chair at his desk.

“Since when have you ever cared about the proper way?” Sherlock stalked over to the desk, picked up the nearest sheaf of papers, and waved them in Mycroft’s face. “You arrange the laws of the Empire to suit yourself—“

“I am a servant of the Empire, and I have never—“

“Your life’s work is manipulating people into doing what you want. Don’t tell me you can’t—“

“Everything is under control.” Mycroft pushed to his feet. “I’m sure you’re fully capable of extracting John from his current difficulties.”

“I’m capable? I’m--? You’re the one who-- . No. No, I see.” Sherlock took a slow step backwards. “You’ve been manufacturing situations from which I have the means to rescue John.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Mycroft said quickly. 

“I don’t think so, brother dear.” Sherlock had that gleam in his eyes now that Lestrade had seen before: a dog on the scent, a detective following the clues. “You want to bind John to me in the only way you know how: gratitude. You think that’s why Lestrade’s been loyal to you all these years—out of obligation for rescuing him from a slow death by exhaustion in the Australian work camps.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but Sherlock was on a roll now, pacing the room, laying out his deductions.

“So John comes along, and you, assuming I have no other merits to hold his interest--thank you for that—decide to create conditions under which loyalty might reasonably develop, namely: crises from which I must be the saviour. You’ve been punishing him, humiliating him, _injuring_ him, all in the name of strengthening my attachment. Very clever. Oh!” Sherlock whirled around to point a finger at Mycroft. “You must have been doing the same to Lestrade. Did you arrange for him to be sent to Milverton?”

“You’re speculating without sufficient data.” Mycroft stood with his back straight, holding very still. “You’ve no idea what I—“

“What you feel?” Sherlock laughed once: a rough sound, like shattered glass. “Caring is a weakness. You’ve told me so yourself, repeatedly.” He strode forward and grabbed Mycroft’s arm. “Where is John?”

“Sherlock, I will not always be able to look after you.” Mycroft folded his hand over Sherlock’s. “I only want—“

Sherlock shook off Mycroft’s touch. “Where is he?” 

“He’s under guard. And he’ll remain so until the danger has passed.”

“Danger that you manufactured. You’re pathetic, Mycroft. You assume Lestrade only serves you out of gratitude for his life? No one’s sense of obligation is that powerful. Is that what I’m meant to have been doing these past years? Is that the brotherly thing to do?” Sherlock stepped around the desk to wave an arm at Lestrade. “Manoeuvring Lestrade into peril so you could swoop in and save the day? Would that have given you the chance to earn what you could never hope to win on your own? Would that have given you a chance for someone to actually _love_ you?”

“That’s _enough_ , Sherlock!” Both brothers’ attention snapped to Lestrade. “Lord Sherlock. Sir.” He bowed his head and turned away. “Excuse me.”

Lestrade fled the room with his face burning. He shouldn’t have spoken like that to Lord Sherlock, no matter his feelings. He hadn’t the right. But he’d never been able to stand quietly by while someone else was attacked. Having been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rage repeatedly, Lestrade had learned not to take these tantrums personally. But Mycroft did not deserve to hear such poisonous suggestions. Sherlock had no right to speak of what lay between Lestrade and his master: that delicate but ever-present feeling that shied away whenever Lestrade dared examine it. 

Lestrade swallowed his frustration and put on an attitude of calm confidence for his walk through the buzzing hallways. 

“Is it true?” Sally asked in hushed tones, in the corridor leading to the family wing. “Did he shoot a man?”

“It’s being taken care of. Make sure everyone carries on with their duties, yeah?”

Mrs. Hudson stopped him in the kitchen. “Is he alright? When they hauled him through here, I thought he might have been bleeding.”

“I’m checking on him now.”

Lestrade descended the steps to the basement, rehearsing what he’d say to make them let him through. If ever there was a time to take advantage of his rank, it was now. But when he reached the detention block, he found no one standing guard. 

“Hello?” His voice echoed down the empty stone corridor.

The light from the stairwell penetrated only a few feet into the corridor of cells. Lestrade ran his hand across the wall until he encountered the switch. The fluorescent lights in the low ceiling flickered to life, illuminating chaos: two still forms in red Imperial guard uniforms lay sprawled on the floor amidst scattered papers. Lestrade reached for his truncheon, which hadn’t been at his side for years, and clenched his fist when he found nothing. Even if he’d had a weapon, it would mean death to use it. No, better to go unarmed.

Lestrade listened intently as he crept forward into the unknown. He pressed his fingers to the neck of the nearest downed guard, and found no pulse. Two bullet holes, inches apart, marred his uniform in the centre of his back. The next guard lay in a pool of blood, with the back of his head smashed in. The sidearm was missing from its holster at the man’s belt. 

Lestrade sprung to his feet and ran the few feet down the corridor to the first cell: door ajar, empty. Each of the six cells told the same story: unlocked, unoccupied. Lestrade dashed back to the stairway, looking around for any clue he might have missed. “Watson!” he shouted. The call bounced back to him against the cellar’s stone walls. “John!” He heard only the lingering echo of his own shout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next installment is currently under construction, and I hope to have it out with less of a gap than there was between this and the previous one. I hope you've enjoyed the series thus far; your encouragement has helped me stick with this baby. The 'verse celebrates its TWO YEAR anniversary this month. Yes, seriously. Thanks for staying with me for this long!


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